Winter Soldier in Westeros
by MarshalofMontival
Summary: Rhaegar and Lyanna thought they were home free; they didn't reckon with the Winter Soldier. Rated T for light-graphic violence and language.
1. Chapter 1

Rhaegar Targaryen leaned back against the cantle of his saddle and stifled a moan. He was used to long days in the saddle, but he had been riding for three days straight, stopping only for night and calls of nature. They had passed Raventree Hall yesterday afternoon and turned south, aiming for the lightly populated lands between Tumbler's Falls and the God's Eye. If they could get over Blackwater Rush undetected, slip over the Mander between Bitterbridge and Tumbleton, cross the Blueburn between Longtable and Grassy Vale, and get past Ashford and Harvest Hall, they could make it to the Dornish Mountains within two moonturns. It would be several more sennights of hard travel through the Red Mountains, but Arthur knew ways through the mountains that were not common knowledge. As well he should, being stony Dornish.

Rhaegar glanced over at Lyanna and smiled. He had half anticipated being refused, but Lyanna had leapt at the chance to escape marriage to Robert Baratheon. Truth be told, he was a little puzzled by the vehemence of Lyanna's language on the subject; as far as he knew, Robert was not abusive. A little fond of good wine, raucous song, and loose women, to be sure, but not violent in his passions. Certainly nothing like the king . . . Rhaegar shook his head. _No matter,_ he thought to himself. _Soon I will have the third head to my dragon, a head born of ice to match those born of fire._ Set against what was to come, nothing mattered. _Nothing_.

He had sent four of his six original companions off in different directions to lay false trails. One pair had gone in the direction of Maidenpool, another towards King's Landing. Only Arthur and Oswell rode with him and Lyanna. With any luck, any pursuit would be led astray. And there would be pursuit at some point, Rhaegar had no doubt. If the Starks and the Baratheons did not come after him, the Martells would. Rhaegar did not relish the prospect of having to bring Oberyn around; the Red Viper's reputation was well-earned. _No matter,_ he thought again. _Once I explain things, Oberyn will come around. He has to. The dragon must have three heads._

Rhaegar was brought out of his brown study by a nudge from Arthur. At an enquiring glance, the Dornish Kingsguard gestured ahead. Standing about a hundred yards away was a single figure, probably a man, although Rhaegar couldn't tell for sure at this distance. Who or whatever he was, he was alone. The rolling plains of this part of the country offered some potential for concealment in the folds and dips of the earth, but the patch of land the figure was standing on was flat in all directions for a good fifty yards, without so much as a bush. He turned back to Arthur. "I don't see anything to be concerned about. He's alone, and we are hardly defenseless."

The Sword of the Morning shrugged. "You wanted to stay out of sight. If pursuers come this way and he's still here, he could give information."

Rhaegar shook his head. "Any information he could give would be days old at best and more probably sennights old. I see no harm in leaving him be." He glanced up at the sun. "In any case, it's midday, or near enough. It would be good to eat on solid ground, rest the horses awhile. He can probably tell us what shape the road ahead is in."

A minute later, Rhaegar and his little party were reining in a half-dozen yards from the figure, who Rhaegar could now plainly see was a man. A tall one, too, easily Rhaegar's height, and at least as broad through the shoulders and the chest. His face was partially obscured by a short beard and shoulder-length black hair. But Rhaegar wasn't interested in his face. What had Rhaegar's attention was the fact that, sewn onto the left breast of the man's brigandine and painted onto the pauldron that encased his left shoulder as closely as if it had grown there was a livery badge depicting a grey direwolf on a white field. Whoever this man was, he has sworn to House Stark. Rhaegar was dumbfounded. _I had no notion that Stark had any adherents this far south. I didn't know that Stark had any adherents between Sunspear and the Neck._

Beside him he heard Lyanna let out her breath in a sighing hiss. "Damn," she muttered. "Barnes."

"And good morning to you too, Lady Lyanna," the man said conversationally, his voice marked with an odd accent under the Northern burr. "To you as well, your Grace, Sers."

"You know this man, my lady?" Oswell asked as he shifted his hand closer to the hilt of his sword. Ser Oswell Whent was somewhat readier to draw his blade than Arthur or Rhaegar, especially when the unexpected happened.

Lyanna nodded. "James Barnes, also called Bucky, for some reason. He's one of Father's sworn swords," she said sourly. "Probably the best of the lot." She stood in her stirrups. "I'm not going back, Barnes!" she shouted. "I'm not going to live out my life as some sad creature locked in a tower!"

"That's not up to you, ma'am," Barnes said evenly. "I have orders to see you safe to Riverrun, and from there to Storm's End. If I have to tie you hand and foot and carry you draped over the back of a horse to do that, I will."

"How did you catch up to us, anyway?" Lyanna demanded. "We've been riding hard for the past three days!"

Barnes shrugged. "I ran. You've seen how fast I can run, ma'am."

Rhaegar frowned. It was, he supposed, possible for a man in excellent condition to outrun a horse over long distances, but only if the man was lightly garbed and equipped. Aside from the brigandine and the oddly close-fitting armor that encased his left arm from shoulder to fingertips, Barnes was carrying a broadsword on his left hip, a long Northern dirk on his right belt, and a quiver of bolts, presumably for the crossbow he was currently cradling in his arms. It was an odd-looking weapon, which appeared to be one crossbow stacked atop another. Rhaegar noticed uneasily that both prods were fully drawn, and bolts loaded in each.

"I'm still not going back," Lyanna said forcefully. "I don't care what orders Father gave you. I'm not going to wed that Baratheon boar."

"With respect, ma'am, that's not up to you," Barnes replied. "I agree Robert's a bit wild, but he's better than most men. He seemed genuinely taken with you at Harrenhal at least. Besides which," he continued, forestalling another outburst from Lyanna, "don't you want to know how Brandon reacted to the news that you had vanished?"

Lyanna blinked, paused. Barnes must have taken it as assent for he carried on. "He was very upset when word arrived that the prince there had kidnapped you. He came within a breath of calling his friends and riding on King's Landing to demand you back."

Rhaegar felt his blood chill. The king was paranoid at the best of times these days. To have an angry Brandon Stark riding up to the Red Keep making demands . . . "Where is Brandon Stark now, Goodman Barnes?" he demanded. If he was quick enough . . .

"In a cell at Riverrun, if I'm any judge, your Grace," Barnes replied. "I knocked him out and Lord Stark said he would keep him locked up until further notice, if that was what it took to keep him from doing anything rash."

Lyanna tossed her head. "Well, next time you see him, tell him not to worry about me," she snapped. "This is my choice, and mine alone."

Barnes shook his head. "That's not how it works, ma'am," he replied stolidly. "You don't get to run out on your responsibilities."

Arthur sidled his horse forward a pace and put his hand to his sword-hilt. "I don't know if all the snow you get in the North froze your ears, Goodman Barnes," he said calmly. "But the lady clearly said she wasn't going back."

The look Barnes favored the Sword of the Morning with was positively chilly. "What's it to you, southron?" he said coldly, the odd accent under his Northern burr suddenly stronger. "Don't you have a king to guard or something?"

"Our king is here," Arthur replied simply, nodding towards Rhaegar without taking his eyes off Barnes's. Rhaegar took that as his cue and leaned forward.

"Let us be frank, Goodman Barnes," he said in his negotiating-with-nobles voice. "Lady Lyanna will not go back with you willingly and three against one is poor odds at the best of times. When the three in question are two Kingsguards and a prince of the blood, it's hardly a contest at all is it?"

Barnes shrugged. "I've fought worse," he said simply.

"I hope you are aware, Goodman, that hindering a prince of the blood about his business is a serious offence," Rhaegar said, injecting a note of sternness into his voice.

"Get between me and my mission, prince, and hindering will the least of your problems," Barnes said evenly, shifting his stance just slightly. Rhaegar took note of how the butt of that odd crossbow of his was already snugged back into his shoulder. The weapon was pointed at the ground still, but Rhaegar doubted that it would take Barnes more than a second to bring the crossbow to his shoulder and loose his bolts.

"I will ask one last time, Goodman Barnes," Rhaegar said flatly. "Stand down and give us the road, or we will resort to steel." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur and Oswell loosen their swords in their scabbards.

Barnes shook his head. "Can't do that, Prince," he said calmly. "Lord Stark gave me a mission, and I have to see it through. I don't want to kill you, but if you get in my way, I will."

Rhaegar nodded. " _Valar morghulis_ ," he said softly to himself. He turned to Arthur and Oswell. "On my lead, Sers, ride him down."

"As Your Grace commands," Oswell said mildly, donning his helmet and drawing his blade. Arthur said nothing, simply drawing his greatsword Dawn and bringing it before his face in a swordsman's salute.

Barnes apparently believed that such pleasantries were wasted. No sooner had he brought his crossbow up to his shoulder than he let fly. The first bolt punched into the head of Rhaegar's horse, squarely between its eyes. The brain-shot horse didn't even whinny, but simply dropped to its front knees and keeled over. Reflexes born of long hours on horseback and in the practice yard allowed Rhaegar to yank his feet clear of the stirrups and throw himself clear, but he landed hard and had to drop his sword on the way down, to keep from landing on it.

When he had retrieved his sword and gotten back to his feet, the first thing he noticed was that Oswell was lying on the ground with a crossbow bolt through his throat. The next thing he noticed was that Barnes had tossed away his crossbow, side-stepped Arthur's charge, and was swinging a left haymaker into the mouth of Arthur's horse.

Even a battle-trained warhorse, with its mouth dulled by countless hours under the bit, could not simply shrug off such a blow. Arthur's horse reared, screaming in pain and spraying blood and bits of broken teeth from its mouth. Arthur fought desperately to keep his seat and bring the animal back under control, but the horse, mad with pain, threw its head down and its hindquarters up and Arthur Dayne went flying. When he hit the ground, Barnes was already waiting for him. A downward thrust through the neck was all it took.

Barnes left the Sword of the Morning choking on the sword in his throat and started walking towards Rhaegar, his face so composed he might have been studying a slightly boring manuscript instead of fighting for his life. Rhaegar shook himself and brought his sword up into a high guard, cocking the blade up over his right shoulder as he drew his poniard with his left hand. Barnes didn't even pause as he drew his dirk and spun it into a reverse grip.

Rhaegar locked away the trickle of fear that Barnes' casual demeanor inspired and launched an overhand cut at his head. Barnes moved like lightning. His left hand, the one encased in the strange close-fitting armor, came up and _caught_ the descending blade, twisting it aside and jerking it out of Rhaegar's hand hard enough to leave Rhaegar's hand stinging, and still holding it by the blade he drove the pommel back towards Rhaegar's head. A frantic twist saved Rhaegar from a cracked skull and the Prince of Dragonstone quickstepped backward, switching his poniard over to his right hand. _Seven Hells, but he's strong. Fast too._ Rhaegar could hardly believe it; the Northman had snatched his sword away as easily as he might take a willow switch from a young boy. And, if the quick glance he stole at that strangely armored left hand was anything to go by, the castle-forged steel hadn't even left a scratch.

"Stop!" Lyanna shouted, spurring her horse in between Rhaegar and Barnes. "Sergeant Barnes, stand down! That's an order!"

Barnes' only reaction was to toss the dirk into the air, catch it by the blade as it came down, and hurl it through the air to bury itself to the hilt in the neck of Lyanna's horse. Lyanna, no mean horsewoman, managed to get off the horse before it foundered, but she lay where she fell, the wind evidently knocked out of her.

Barnes advanced, inexorable. Rhaegar fought back the fear the man's feats heretofore had inspired and lunged in with his poniard. Barnes caught his wrist with his right hand, guided Rhaegar's dagger aside, and sent a left hook slamming into Rhaegar's rib cage. Rhaegar had just enough time to register the sensation of breaking ribs when that same left hand came back around and drove into his elbow.

Rhaegar screamed involuntarily as his elbow bent the wrong way, his hand opening and the dagger falling away. Then an iron vice clamped around his throat and an irresistible force bore him to the ground. Barnes loomed over him, his face still as composed as if he were taking a cup of wine in a garden. "Who . . . What _are_ you?!" Rhaegar gasped, trying to fight back the pain from his broken ribs and shattered arm.

Barnes' grey eyes were like stones. " _Zimniy Soldat,_ " he replied, his voice hard as ice. "The Winter Soldier." His left fist plowed into Rhaegar's jaw and the prince knew no more.

Author Note:

First off, if _zimniy soldat_ doesn't translate to winter soldier, blame Google Translate. My non-English language skills are limited to some patchwork Spanish and fragments of a few other languages, most of them impolite. Secondly, I am aware that there is some frustration in the community about the majority of ISOT incidents benefitting the Starks. I see the point, but the Starks are my favorite characters (excepting the Tyrion and Bronn show and Stannis) so my story ideas will generally be in the Stark-buff category. But I digress . . . My general concept for this story was basically as follows. Sometime between _CA: Winter Soldier_ and _CA: Civil War_ , James Buchanan Barnes, alias the Winter Soldier, late Sergeant in the U. S. Army, gets ISOTed to Winterfell some years previous to Robert's Rebellion and finds himself in the service of Lord Rickard Stark. Lord Rickard (who I fancast as being played by Jeremy Irons) learns about Bucky's past and skills over the course of a few months and is understandably pleased at the thought of having possibly the single deadliest man in Westeros in his service. That being said, Lord Rickard's main course of action in the time period in question is alliance-building, which doesn't leave much scope for someone with Bucky's particular set of skills. He did send Bucky along to the Harrenhal tourney to act as head of security for his children, but Bucky kept mostly out of sight.

Regarding the point that Bucky might refuse to serve as someone's pet leg-breaker after HYDRA, there are two things to keep in mind. The first is that Bucky's frame of reference for shady employers is formed by a) the U. S. Army of WWII (all respect and honor to the Greatest Generation, but WWII America did some pretty shady stuff) and b) HYDRA. The Starks might be medieval magnates, and hence only different from mafia dons in that they use broadswords instead of tommy guns, but even the worst of the Starks is nowhere near HYDRA's weight class in terms of malevolence. The second thing is that the only person who can go toe-to-toe with Bucky and have a hope of winning is, maybe, Gregor Clegane. If Bucky made up his mind that he wanted to terminate his employment with the Starks, the only real way to stop would be massed archery, and even then, it wouldn't be a sure thing. Lord Rickard, being nobody's fool, has thought of this, and consequently decided not to push the limits of Bucky's loyalty.

Regarding this scene in particular, my thought process was more or less as follows. After Harrenhal, Lord Rickard briefed Bucky on his "Southron Ambitions™" and made him responsible for Lyanna's security on the trip south to Riverrun. However, while Bucky is a super-soldier, he has to sleep, eat, and answer calls of nature sometime and his immediate subordinates in Lyanna's detail are not of his caliber. This allows for Lyanna to do a runner on one of those occasions that Bucky's attention is focused elsewhere, and she and Rhaegar hie themselves off at speed, to try and outdistance pursuit. Bucky after taking drastic measures to keep Brandon from doing anything rash, takes off after them catching up with them about halfway between Raventree Hall and Rushing Falls, west of the God's Eye (see  / for the map I used in writing this story). Negotiations break down, Bucky engages super-soldier mode, and about a minute later, Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent are dead, Rhaegar is unconscious, and Bucky is in a position to take Lyanna back to Riverrun.

The big question is "What happens now?"

Rhaegar started the whole sorry mess by making off with Lyanna, who is a) under her father's guardianship, and b) betrothed, but Bucky has killed two Kingsguard knights and left the heir to the throne unconscious in a field. Doesn't matter what the context is, His Royal Madness will immediately accuse the Starks of treason and demand Bucky's head on a plate, for a start. On the other hand, the Starks and the Baratheons are going to be hopping mad about Rhaegar's attempted abduction. Robert, for one, will probably rush to Lyanna's side immediately and not leave for anything, with Eddard barely a second behind him. As Robert and Eddard go, so goes Jon Arryn, for the sake of his wards and to curtail the Targaryen's misrule. With Brandon still alive, he and Catelyn marry within the month, with Lord Rickard standing behind him to keep him from doing anything hasty as regards Targaryens. With Hoster Tully tied into Lord Rickard's alliance bloc, the major variables still undetermined are the Lannisters and the Tyrells.

One thing's for sure, the next few months are going to be some of the most critical in the recent history of Westeros.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Well, I wasn't expecting that sort of reaction. Thank you everyone for the positive reviews and the favorites. Two questions that need answering before we continue. Firstly, yes, I did post this on several months ago, I just didn't post it here until now. Mostly, this was due to laziness on my part. Secondly, ISOT, for those of you not conversant in lingo, refers to S. M. Stirling's** ** _Island on the Sea of Time_** **, in which the island of Nantucket, with everything and everyone on it, is teleported back in time 1993 CE to 1250 BCE (For those of you who aren't history nerds, think Pharaoh Rameses II and you've got the right time-frame). It has since become common parlance for teleportation through space and/or time.**

 **I might expand on this story a bit more as time goes by but it will of necessity be sporadic. I am currently studying criminal justice and working part-time, in addition to which I have an original story idea that I want to expand upon. All I can say is that updates will come as inspiration strikes and events allow and your patience is appreciated.**

 **Regards, MarshalofMontival**

"End of report, sir," Barnes said, standing at what he called 'parade rest' with his feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind him, and eyes focused on the wall between Hoster and Lord Stark. Hoster was astounded by the report that Barnes had just given. He had not only tackled odds of three-to-one and triumphed, but he had done so on foot, against two Kingsguard knights and the Prince of Dragonstone, who was still a fine knight if not in quite the same league as Ser Arthur Dayne, while his opponents were mounted. Undoubtedly, the man's unnatural strength, speed, and stamina had been instrumental, but it was nonetheless evident that Barnes was a singularly dangerous man.

Lord Stark nodded. "Well done, Sergeant Barnes," he said gravely. "From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. Will you continue to serve as my daughter's protector, until Lord Baratheon arrives here and marries her?"

Barnes nodded. "I will, sir. Shall I take responsibility for Prince Rhaegar as well?"

"By all means," Lord Stark replied. "I doubt that the Prince will be able to attempt escape anytime soon, but it were best to take precautions. I therefore charge you to ensure Lyanna's safety, Rhaegar's confinement, and their separation. On no account are they to come within sight or sound of each other."

"It shall be done, sir" Barnes said, his voice as steady as Riverrun's walls. "By your leave, sir, I shall see to the arrangements immediately." At Lord Stark's nod, he snapped back to attention, brought his hand up to his brow in a salute which Lord Stark gravely returned, turned around, and marched out the door. Hoster waited until Barnes had closed the door behind him to turn to Lord Stark.

"My lord, if Barnes ever leaves your service, I pray you let me know. I could use a man of his talents."

"I fear you will be a long time waiting, my lord," Lord Stark replied. "We have come to an understanding, since he entered my service; he serves me well, and I don't ask him to do things that contradict his principles. He might be the deadliest man in Westeros, but he is still remarkably sentimental."

Hoster shrugged. "Even so, my lord, let me know if he professes himself dissatisfied with serving you." He walked over the cupboard on the side wall of his solar and opened it. "A glass of wine for you, my lord? I have Arbor gold and Dornish red."

"I'll have the Dornish, thank you," Lord Stark said gratefully. "Arbor wines are somewhat too sweet for me these days."

"For me as well," Hoster said, nodding as he selected a decanter and a pair of glasses. "But they are popular enough to warrant keeping plenty of them. Especially with the King alienating the Dornish with his treatment of Princess Elia."

"Which is yet more evidence that the Targaryens have gone around the bend," Lord Stark noted sourly as he and Hoster sat at Hoster's desk. "With the Dornish, you either kill them, befriend them, or leave them alone; you don't insult them and then leave them alive. I would have thought Aerys had learned that from his maester."

"Aerys was proud even before Duskendale," Hoster replied as he set down the glasses and poured out the rich red wine. "Who else would tell Tywin Lannister of all people that his children were too lowborn for a royal spouse?" He pushed one of the glasses over to Lord Stark and raised his own. "Your daughter's health, my lord."

"Likewise, my lord," Lord Stark answered courteously as they touched their glasses together and drank deep. "All is in readiness for tomorrow, I trust?"

"It is indeed," Hoster said, leaning back in his chair. "My steward is like to tear his hair out and my maester informs me that to hold the wedding in the absence of my assembled lords would be unwise, but I do not think we can wait. We must forge a united front while we can, before Aerys declares us outlaw."

"He will likely do so anyway," Lord Stark said equably, taking another sip of his wine. "Barnes did kill his household men and assault his heir; any court in Westeros would agree it was treasonable on the face of it. The trick will be levering the other kingdoms away from the crown."

"Which we have better odds of doing, now that both Aerys and Rhaegar have been proven to be insane," Hoster replied. "That Jon Arryn will join us, I have no doubt; this whole affair was his idea to begin with. Young Robert will likely be able to hold the Stormlands together even if Aerys attaints us, seeing as Rhaegar injured him as much as you by abducting Lyanna." The fact that Lyanna had gone with Rhaegar willingly was being kept very quiet indeed. The last thing they needed was for that little detail to muddy the waters. "Tywin will have no choice but to call his banners against us, with Aerys keeping his son as a glorified hostage, but unless I miss my guess, he will be rather less than vigorous in his efforts, because of the hatred he bears for Aerys. The Tyrells and the Dornish will be the most trouble for us, I think, but Mace Tyrell is unlikely to pay enough heed to Tarly to make him dangerous, and the Dornish, to be perfectly blunt, are dangerous only to the Stormlands."

"And I would be surprised if the Dornish were very prompt in answering a royal summons to war," Lord Stark mused. "Princess Elia and her children are effectively hostages to Dorne's obedience, but Dorne has never loved the Targaryen's for their own sake. If they didn't need the Iron Throne to counter the Reach, I doubt they would stir much beyond their borders."

"So the Iron Throne can only wholly rely on the Reach," Hoster said, swirling his wine in his glass. "Mind you, that will be a hard row to hoe even for all of us put together. A fool the size of a house is no less dangerous for being a fool."

"Especially since this assumes that there are no defections among our bannermen," Lord Stark replied. "I mean no offense, my lord, but the Riverlands are not famous for the unanimity of their lords."

"I have already sent ravens to Goodbrook, Mooton, Ryger, and Darry, inviting them and their sons to Robert and Lyanna's wedding," Hoster answered, acknowledging the truth of Lord Stark's words with a gesture. "Forbye, I also sent word to Jon Arryn that he should be sure to bring Grafton and his son with him to the wedding, along with anyone else he thinks might declare for the dragons if push came to shove. What of you, my lord, have you sent ravens to the Boltons to come south?"

Lord Stark shook his head. "Young Roose is no fool, to try and challenge me," he said equably. "He knows I would flay him myself with his own knife if he tried. I have, however, sent ravens to Winterfell, telling Benjen to call the banners. I would advise that you make plans to do likewise, my lord. Aerys must learn that his madness will not be allowed to harm the realm."

Hoster shook his head. "I would counsel patience for a time yet, at least until Aerys reacts," he replied. "At the moment, you and young Robert are the injured parties in this mess. If we suddenly call our banners, then it will seem as if we were planning rebellion from the beginning. That might have been Jon Arryn's plan, but it is not mine. Not yet, anyway."

Lord Stark shrugged. "As you say, my lord," he said. "In any case, we will not need to wait long. Ravens can fly from here to King's Landing in two to three days, your maester tells me. Give it another day or two for Aerys and his council to come up with an answer and we have perhaps a week before Aerys reacts to us telling him that his heir tried to kidnap my daughter. By that time, Robert and Ned should be only three day's hard ride away, maybe less, if they ride their horses to foundering, and Jon Arryn will be about to leave the Vale with his party for the wedding. With any luck, if we need to call our banners, we will be able to get a message to Jon before he leaves the Vale, and within a month, maybe two or three at the most, we can have up to one hundred and forty-five thousand men in the field, and Aerys can rave all he likes." He drained his glass and set it on the table. "In any case, this will keep until after tomorrow. I'll see you in the morning, my lord."

"Will Lyanna be joining the festivities, my lord?" Hoster inquired. "She seemed somewhat overwrought when Barnes brought her in this morning."

Lord Stark's face could have been carved from stone. "She will do as she is bid," he said shortly, "or I will know why."

"As you say, my lord," Hoster said smoothly. "I bid you good night."

"Good night, my lord," Lord Stark replied with a short bow, and walked out of Hoster's solar. Hoster drained his own glass and briefly contemplated refilling it. Lord Stark's troubles with his daughter stirred up memories of his own troubles with Lysa. At length he shook his head and restoppered the decanter. It would be a long and busy day tomorrow and a hangover would be the last thing he needed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's** **note** : So I have again succumbed to laziness in uploading to this site, which is why you are all getting three chapters today. Thank you all for the likes, follows, and reviews!

Timeline of the War of Ravens

10th day of the 1st month of 282 AC: Rhaegar Targaryen abducts Lyanna Stark on the Riverroad. Sergeant James "Bucky" Barnes, a sworn sword of House Stark, sets out in pursuit.

11th day of the 1st month of 282 AC: Lord Rickard Stark and Lord Hoster Tully send out ravens from Riverrun announcing that Lyanna has been abducted by Rhaegar. Lord Rickard sends a raven to Riverrun instructing his youngest son, Benjen, who is the Stark in Winterfell in the absence of his father and older siblings, to call the banners.

13th day of the 1st month of 282 AC: Sergeant Barnes catches up to Rhaegar, Lyanna, and their escort (Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard) west of the God's Eye. In the resultant fray, Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell are killed and Rhaegar is wounded and taken prisoner by Sergeant Barnes.

17th day of the 1st month of 282 AC: Sergeant Barnes returns to Riverrun with Lyanna and Rhaegar. Ravens go out announcing this.

18th day of the 1st month of 282 AC: Brandon Stark weds Catelyn Tully at Riverrun. In attendance are their respective fathers, as well as Catelyn's sister Lysa and brother Edmure. Lyanna also attends, although some note that she does so with poorly concealed ill grace.

19th day of the 1st month of 282 AC: Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark set out from the Eyrie for Riverrun. Lord Jon Arryn begins to assemble a party to travel after them to attend Robert's wedding to Lyanna; Marq Grafton is one of the more prominent names, along with Nestor and Yohn Royce, Lyn Corbray, Benedar Belmore, and Anya Waynwood.

21st day of the 1st month of 282 AC: King Aerys issues a proclamation declaring that the wounding and capture of his son and heir Prince Rhaegar is treasonous and constitutes an act of rebellion. However, the King's mercy is such that if Rhaegar is released and the "traitor lords Stark and Tully" come alone to King's Landing to bend the knee and beg the King's forgiveness, then the lives of their children will be spared. It is observed by some that the relatively moderate language of the proclamation is most likely the work of the Hand of the King, Lord Owen Merryweather, and Varys, the Master of Whispers.

22nd day of the 1st month of 282 AC: Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark arrive at Riverrun. After a hurried consultation with Lord Rickard and Sergeant Barnes, Robert begins earnestly courting Lyanna. Lyanna is at first contemptuous of Robert's efforts, but as the days pass, she begins to come around, especially after learning that Robert has cut back on his drinking and curtailed his philandering ways.

25th day of the 1st month of 282 AC: Lord Rickard Stark and Lord Hoster Tully send a raven to King's Landing protesting their loyalty to the Iron Throne and petitioning for some official redress of the grievance that they have suffered at the hands of Prince Rhaegar, who they note is confined in very comfortable conditions and recovering nicely from the injuries he unfortunately sustained in the course of resisting arrest. Lord Jon Arryn sets out from the Eyrie for Riverrun; all the lords and ladies he has invited meet him at the Bloody Gate.

3rd day of the 2nd month of 283 AC: Lord Jon Arryn and his party arrive at Riverrun. As Lord Hoster Tully's guests, notably including Lords Darry, Goodbrook, Mooton, Ryger, Bracken, Blackwood, Mallister, Frey, and Vance, have already arrived and almost all of the preparations have been made, Robert and Lyanna's marriage is scheduled to take place in three days. During these three days, the attending lords spend much of their time closeted together in Lord Hoster's solar, which is the scene of often acrimonious debate.

4th day of the 2nd month of 283 AC: King Aerys Targaryen dispatches a raven to Riverrun declaring that the request for redress submitted by Lords Rickard Stark and Hoster Tully is denied and warning them that if they do not release Prince Rhaegar immediately upon receipt of the raven and personally escort him to King's Landing to bend the knee and beg the king's forgiveness, then they and all their confederates will be attainted for treason and declared outlaw. Their lives and the lives of their families and co-conspirators will be forfeit, down to the youngest child, and their lands will be transferred to "houses of proven loyalty to the Iron Throne."

6th day of the 2nd month of 283 AC: Robert Baratheon weds Lyanna Stark at Riverrun. In deference to the faith of the Starks, who follow the Old Gods, the ceremony takes place in the godswood before the heart tree, while the chief septon of the Stony Sept, specially invited for the occasion by Lord Hoster Tully, officiates. The same day, dispatch riders are sent out carrying both news of the wedding and copies of a document that will become famous as the Declaration of Riverrun. Signed by all the lords present at Riverrun, it sets out a list of grievances against House Targaryen, chief among them the madness and misrule of King Aerys and the attempted abduction of Lyanna by Prince Rhaegar. It also enumerates a list of demands that the Lords Declarant, as they style themselves, state are the price of their continued obedience to House Targaryen. These demands are many and various but the first three are the most inflammatory.

\- Firstly, Prince Rhaegar must be stripped of all his lands, titles, and offices, be removed from the succession, and put on trial for the attempted abduction of Lyanna Baratheon, nee Stark.

\- Secondly, King Aerys, who the Lords Declarant describe as being "of unsound mind and unstable temper", must abdicate the Iron Throne on the grounds of his manifest unfitness to rule.

\- Thirdly, a Great Council must be called to determine the succession and draft a charter guaranteeing the rights and liberties of the nobility against the power of the Iron Throne.

The Lords Declarant make it clear that the Declaration constitutes an ultimatum, the details of which they will not negotiate on. If King Aerys refuses to comply, then the Lords Declarant will have no choice, they say, but to raise their banners in revolt, in order to save the Realm from the consequences of the Targaryen's madness. A minor stir is caused among the Lords Declarant when Lyanna insists on signing her name to the Declaration, but Robert supports the notion and so her name is added.

Despite the fact that the Lords Declarant have effectively declared themselves to be in rebellion against the Crown, the mood at Riverrun is one of cautious optimism. The kingdoms represented at Riverrun may be relative lightweights individually, especially compared to the riches of the Westerlands and the hordes of the Reach, but collectively they represent just under half of the military strength of the Seven Kingdoms, and some, especially Robert and his new goodbrother Brandon Stark, are of the opinion that it is the better half. This being said, no one at Riverrun is sanguine about the odds of Aerys caving in and abdicating, and so ravens fly to the Eyrie and Storm's End, instructing their respective castellans to call the banners in the names of Lord Jon Arryn and Lord Robert Baratheon. Lord Hoster Tully also calls his banners, while the banners of the North are already assembling at Winterfell. A raven from Benjen Stark reports that eighteen thousand men have already arrived at the muster, and another three thousand are expected within the next sennight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Casterly Rock**

Tywin Lannister prided himself on his equanimity in the face of excitement. Even so, he found it hard to keep an even keel as he read through the Declaration of Riverrun. He had no doubt at all that he was holding the most inflammatory document in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.

"So?" asked his brother Tygett. "Shall we call our banners?"

Tywin shot him a glance that would have quelled any other man but which rolled off his hot-headed brother like water off a duck's back before turning to Kevan."Kevan, send out riders to our demesne lands. Have five hundred horse and a thousand foot assembled at Oxcross within the sennight. Once they are assembled, you, Tygett, and Gerion will begin a training program." He then turned to his maester. "Maester Creylen, send out ravens to the Crag, Ashemark, Sarsfield, Silverhill, Crakehall, and Kayce. They are to send one hundred horse and five hundred foot each to Oxcross for a training camp of four months duration. Make it plain that they are to send their best men and that their own presence is neither required nor requested." He paused, running through a calculation in his head, and then continued. "Tell them further that their men shall be fed at House Lannister's expense, and each footman shall receive three silver stags a week, while each horseman shall receive six silver stags a week from House Lannister's treasury. Have a draft of the message ready for my approval within the hour. That will be all." Maester Creylen bowed and scuttled off to his study to draft the message while Tywin's brothers looked at him in momentary silence. Kevan seemed to be simply curious, while Tygett looked confused and Gerion seemed puzzled. Eleven hundred horse and four thousand foot only constituted about a quarter to a third of the muster of the West, hardly enough to march on Riverrun.

"Alright, I'll bite," Gerion said casually, leaning back in his chair. "Why are you only mustering a quarter of our strength and keeping it on our doorstep instead of calling the banners and marching on Riverrun?"

"Because there is more to this matter than a mad king and a prophecy-blinded prince," Tywin said flatly, indicating the Declaration sitting on his desk. "If the Great Houses can demand that the Crown issue a charter respecting their rights and liberties, who is to say that our bannermen cannot demand as much of us?"

Tygett snorted. "They can try," he said darkly, "and you can send them another minstrel to play that depressing song of yours."

"Tygett, do employ your brain for once," Gerion said with only a bare hint of condescension to make Tygett snarl at him. "We are stronger than any one of our bannermen, to be sure, perhaps even stronger than any two put together. But if all our bannermen turned against us, then it would be like a bear-baiting, with us playing the role of the bear."

"Hence the partial muster," Kevan interjected, a look of dawning realization on his face. "If Aerys demands to know why we aren't marching against the rebels, then we can say that we will certainly march, just as soon as our men are ready. In the meantime, we will be forging an army that will draw its rations and pay from us and us alone, thereby alienating them from their lords. It may be only a quarter of our strength, but it will be the quarter with the best training and equipment, and it will be backed by our household troops."

"Just so," Tywin said with grudging approval. Kevan was the smartest of his brothers, in his opinion, but he much preferred it when he didn't get clever ideas. A little initiative in a subordinate was no bad thing, but too much led to nonsense like the treachery of the Reynes. "You, Kevan, shall have command of the foot, while you, Tygett, while have command of the heavy horse. Gerion, you will command the outriders. Employ our household men as your cadres and let the underofficers exercise their initiative in matters of training." He leaned forward, eyes intent. "In four months, I want to have the best army of its size in all of Westeros at my call. This year will be critical to the future of our House, and I mean to come out of it at the height of power."

"Well in that case, I do believe a toast is in order," Gerion said cheerfully, pouring out four glasses of Amber Gold. "To the Army of the West, may it bring glory to our House and death to our enemies!"

"Hear, hear," the Lannister brothers chorused as they touched their glasses together and drank deep.

 **Sunspear**

Doran Martell dropped the scroll containing the Declaration of Riverrun onto his desk and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes in contemplation. Almost four years as the Prince of Dorne had taught him that impetuosity was inherently dangerous, and the proof, as if he needed it, was right here in front of him. _What, in the bowels of all the gods, was Rhaegar thinking?!_

"I'll kill him," Oberyn snarled from the other side of the table, rage thickening his voice. "I'll flay him in strips from the feet up. I'll stake him out in the desert and let the sun fry him alive. I'll have him torn apart by wild horses. I'll . . ."

"You'll do no such thing," Doran said without opening his eyes. "For one thing, he is in a cell at Riverrun and you are not. For another thing, what exactly do you think will happen to Elia and her children, brother mine, if Rhaegar dies on a Dornish blade?" He cracked open an eye and regarded his hot-tempered brother owlishly. "Aerys _might_ simply burn her alive, but I rather doubt it. I have read Uncle Lewyn's reports about how Aerys treats his own wife, as I know you have. How do you think he will treat a woman he actively hates, who has only one defender?"

That made Oberyn pause. The reports of Aerys's conduct had grown ever more gruesome over the years. "But she is the mother of his grandchildren!" he protested.

"So?" Doran asked calmly. "Those grandchildren might lose their place in the succession for their father's sins and Aerys has another heir. Viserys is young yet, but that makes him all the more easily molded." He stood up and poured two cups of watered wine. "I know that you want Rhaegar's head on a pike," he said as he handed Oberyn his cup, "but you cannot allow yourself to get carried away. We have so few pieces on the cyvasse board that we must be very careful how we move them."

Oberyn accepted the cup with a grudging nod and turned towards the map. "I trust you will order the passes to be closed, at least?" he asked. "We are well within our rights to defend ourselves, given the uncertainty of the times."

"The ravens will fly by this evening," Doran replied. "Wyl, Manwoody, Fowler, Blackmont, and Dayne will bar the way, as they have done since Dorne was unified, while our army musters at Yronwood. You will have command." He turned to Oberyn and fixed him with a penetrating gaze. "I charge you now, brother, have a care with this army. We only have the one and if you break it, we will not have another for a generation."

"I pray you have some confidence in me, brother," Oberyn said in tones of mild hurt. "I am careless of my own life, not the lives of those under me." He traced the route from Yronwood up the Boneway towards Blackhaven. "Once the army is assembled it will take no less than sixteen days to march into the Stormlands, if we bypass Blackhaven and live off the country. If we are ordered to march on the rebels, what shall we do? I am not minded to save the Targaryens from their own folly, except for Elia's sake."

"Which is why I have another mission for you," Doran said, placing his cup on the table. "I trust you know men who can take a message through hostile country undiscovered?"

Oberyn nodded. "I can give you three names off the top of my head. Why do you ask?"

"Because I mean to send a message to these Lords Declarant," Doran said calmly. "If they will guarantee that Elia and her children will be spared and their claim to the Iron Throne honored, then not one Dornish spearman shall cross the Marches under royal colors."

Oberyn paused and turned a stunned gaze on his brother. "If any of Varys's little birds get wind of that," he said softly, "then Elia's life will not be worth an onion."

"Then I suggest you tell your man to be careful," Doran said, placing his hands on the table. "I am set on this course, Oberyn, and I will not be swayed. Let Elia and her children survive and their claim be honored and I care not a fig for House Targaryen. Do you?"

Oberyn considered for a moment and then shook his head. "No, I don't," he said, raising his cup in a toast. "Long live King Aegon, the Sixth of his Name," he proclaimed, draining the cup and flinging it out the open window.

 **The Red Keep**

Varys poured himself a cup of hippocras in the privacy of his study as he digested the events of the past two months. A lifetime of dissimulation let him maintain a bland expression even under the greatest of stress, but now, in his own chambers, he felt his mouth twist in a snarl.

Damn it, but everything had been going so well! Aerys had been mad of course, but Lord Merryweather was, if not capable, then at least tolerably good at maintaining the illusion that all was well with the government of the realm, and Chelsted, Staunton, and Velaryon, as well as Varys himself, had managed to keep the wheels turning. Aerys would have died within a decade, if Varys was any judge, and then Rhaegar would have assumed the throne as a mature and seasoned man with a healthy heir and the support, if not outright acclaim, of the Kingdoms. Most importantly, the Realm would have remained at peace. Aerys's habit of ordering that traitors be executed by burning had been alarming to be sure, but when all the people Aerys had so far burned alive were set in the scales against all those who would die in even one campaign as the armies marched across Westeros, Varys knew which option he would take.

And then that purblind _fool_ Rhaegar had pissed it all away, for a slip of a girl from the frozen North. Years of effort wasted on the whim of an idiot; it made Varys want to spit, it really did.

To be fair, not all the news was bad. Mace Tyrell had declared for the Crown and was assembling a mighty host at Bitterbridge. Lords Fell and Cafferen had also declared for the Crown and were launching raids against those stormlords who had declared for the rebels. The Crownlands were unanimously behind the Targaryens.

There, however, the good news ended. Tywin Lannister seemed content to hide behind his mountain passes and amuse himself with drilling a quarter of the strength of the West. Doran Martell had closed the passes into Dorne and had so far not even answered any of the Crown's letters commanding him to march out and crush the rebellious stormlords like so many eggshells. As for the rebels, they seemed to be doing remarkably well so far. One of Varys's little birds at the Twins had reported that twenty-two thousand northmen had come marching south, collecting the four thousand swords of House Frey on their way to Lord Harroway's Town. The riverlords, for a wonder, seemed to be united behind House Tully, with the sole exception of Lord Roote, who had declared for the Crown, but Varys presumed that was why the northern host was marching his way. The chivalry of the Vale had assembled at the Bloody Gate and was marching down the High Road. And at Storm's End, young Stannis Baratheon had declared for his brother Robert and was rallying men to put down Fell and Cafferen.

In Varys's estimation, the odds were too even to predict the outcome of the contest. The Reach could field seventy thousand men, to be sure, but they would be facing up to one hundred and forty thousand, if the rebels managed to mass their troops effectively. And while Mace Tyrell had one of the best battle commanders in Westeros in the person of Lord Randyll Tarly, Mace Tyrell was prone to vainglory and thought himself a gifted soldier. Such delusions might be excusable in tourneys, but in a battle, Mace would have to match wits and strength with Jon Arryn, Rickard Stark, and Hoster Tully, all of whom were veterans.

Varys sipped his wine and sighed. So many years of trying to avert a war, and now not only was war underway, but he was contemplating defeat. It was really quite intolerable.

In sober fact, looking at the evidence, it was probably time to start thinking about how best to limit the catastrophe that would likely befall House Targaryen. Aerys and Rhaegar would have to go for there to be peace, Varys had no delusions on that score, but there was a chance that the Lords Declarant might be persuaded to accept Viserys or Aegon as king. It would mean a period of regency, a long one if Viserys was passed over for Aegon, but if hotheads like Brandon Stark and Robert Baratheon could be restrained by the likes of Jon Arryn and Rickard Stark, then the realm might be best served by a steady hand on the tiller until Viserys or Aegon came of age.

The trick would be arranging for Viserys and Aegon to survive until then. Varys set his wine aside and rang for one of his little birds. No rest for this Spider, not yet anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky wiped down the blade of his sword for the last time and slid it back into the scabbard. Lord Roote had felt the need to put up a fight for honor's sake before surrendering to the Lords Declarant, and Lord Stark had decided to oblige him by storming Harroway Town. Brandon and Robert, hotheaded as ever, had led the escalade over the walls while young Eddard brought up a ram and broke down the gates. Lord Roote had tried to surrender within an hour, but he had made the mistake of defending the walls well enough to infuriate the northerners and riverlanders but not well enough to repulse them. The resulting sack had lasted the rest of the day and into the night until Lord Stark had sent Bucky and his company in to restore order.

The last of the fires was burning itself out by now and the bodies of those few northerners who had been drunk enough to offer resistance to Bucky's company had been strung up over the town's wrecked gates to remind the rest that Lord Stark expected discipline in his soldiers. Now the regiments were forming up to march on down the Kingsroad towards Sow's Horn. Bucky's mission was to take his company and scout ahead of the army, which was due to link up with the Valemen coming down the High Road.

In the five years since Bucky had come to Westeros, Lord Stark had done two things on Bucky's recommendation. The first was the regimentation of the North's army. Instead of the hodge-podge feudal muster that characterized the armies of every other region, each northern lord was obligated to support one regiment each of cavalry and infantry. On the outbreak of hostilities, the first battalions of those regiments, consisting of the lord's household troops and the pick of the levies, who were required to spend four days a month and two sennights a year training with the household men in return for being excused from corvee duty, were to be mobilized and sent to Winterfell to await further orders. The second battalions of those regiments, filled by the remainder of the levies who were also obliged to spend four days a month in training, would either remain behind to provide a garrison or be dispatched to reinforce the army if the threat was low enough. The result wasn't the army that Bucky vaguely remembered being a part of, but it was a lot better than the ill-disciplined collection of loosely knit contingents that was the average army in Westeros.

The second thing Lord Stark had done was raise an elite reconnaissance unit, one that would blind the enemy and keep Lord Stark well informed of their movements. This, he had agreed, was a good concept and he had given it to Bucky to make it real. The fruits of Bucky's labors were arrayed behind him, three platoons of the best wilderness men and light troops that Bucky could find in all the North. Leather-clad foresters from the Wolfswood with longbows that could punch a bodkin through plate armor, burly clansmen who grew up on the harshest mountains in Westeros, rough-riding horsemen from the Rills and the barrowlands who were all but born in the saddle, even a squad of crannogmen who had earned their place by infiltrating past a double guard that Bucky had posted and instructed himself to present their letter of introduction. They were the Pathfinder Company, and Bucky had taught them every trick he knew.

He turned and called for his platoon sergeants, who trotted over to him and crouched around him as he drew his dirk and sketched a rough map in the dirt. "The situation is as follows," he began, indicating the area around Harroway Town. "The army will link up with the Valemen today or tomorrow and march south along the Kingsroad. Their first stop will be Sow's Horn, then Hayford Castle, then King's Landing. Command expects to fight at least one major battle between here and King's Landing, to knock the Crownlords out of the way." He shifted the point of his dirk south of the line representing the Blackwater Rush. "We received word four days ago that the Tyrell's were amassing an army at Bitterbridge to support the Targaryens. From there they have a choice. They can go north into the Riverlands, or they can go east and either reinforce King's Landing, or turn south and attack down the Kingsroad towards Storm's End and try to knock the Stormlands out of the war."

Willam Wull, a giant of a man who was naturally called "Wee Willie" by his fellow clansmen, stroked his burst-mattress beard meditatively. "Can't see Lord Baratheon liking that too much," he rumbled. "Those are his people the southrons will be coming down on."

"Which is why we are marching on King's Landing, to try and force their hand into reinforcing the city," Bucky said, nodding. "Our mission is to ride ahead of the army, screen their advance from loyalist scouts, and collect any information we can get on the loyalist forces between here and King's Landing." He fixed his sergeants with a steady gaze. "I know your men expect the opportunity to loot, but remind them of the rules. If anyone breaks them, hang them from the nearest tree that can take the weight, on my authority." One of the reasons the company respected Bucky so much, aside from the fact that he could brawl any ten of them into the ground without breaking a sweat, was that he kept the rules simple. Firstly, you completed the mission by any means necessary, regardless of circumstances. Secondly, you cared for your horse and your gear before you cared for yourself. Thirdly, you did not steal unless it was from the enemy or you were starving. Fourthly, you did not get drunk without Bucky's express permission. Fifth and lastly, you did not rape, ever. If you broke one of these rules, then you got either a pounding delivered by Bucky himself, or you got to dance the Hangman's Reel. It had only taken one demonstration for the men to realize that Bucky was serious about the rules. "March order: Willam on the right, closest to the God's Eye, Martyn in the center, facing Antlers, and Rickon on the left, covering the approaches from Maidenpool. Lord Mooton is with us, so I doubt we'll run into much trouble until we get past God's Eye Woods, but keep your eyes open and your heads on a swivel. Any questions?" Martyn, a lean Wolfswood forester who appeared to be assembled out of sticks and rawhide, shook his head, as did Rickon, a grizzled old horseman from the Rills with a weatherbeaten face. Willam also shook his head. Bucky wiped the point of his dirk on his trouser leg and sheathed it as they all stood up. "Alright then, mount up, boys," he said with a nod, sending them hustling back to their squads as he swung himself onto his garron. Each man of the Pathfinders was mounted, which significantly increased their mobility even if three-quarters of them would dismount to fight. The clansmen, foresters, and crannogmen were mounted on garrons, as Bucky was, while the men from the Rills and Barrowlands rode long-legged coursers. They were Bucky's cavalry arm, which was why he had put them on his open left flank, where the most open ground was.

A horn call had the Pathfinders in the saddle in a flurry of motion and Bucky felt a deep sense of pride. They might not be the Howling Commandos he so dimly remembered, but he thought Steve would be proud of them. "Pathfinders," he shouted, raising his silver-glinting left arm over his head and waving his hand in a circle, "move out!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Authors note: Sorry about the delay, all. This chapter gave me problems for a while. In any case, here are two more chapters detailing the next phase of the rebellion.**

Lord Rickard Stark grimaced as he surveyed the area where the Crownlords had decided to stand and fight. Located just south of Ivy Inn on the Kingsroad, it was a checkerboard of small fields centered on a small village and separated from each other by hedgerows and narrow lanes. If he was going to fight a defensive battle with a majority infantry army against an opponent that outnumbered him by almost two to one in cavalry alone, then this was the sort of terrain he would ask for. Each field could be turned into a miniature castle, with the hedgerows manned by spearmen and archers and a small force of cavalry in the center of the field to counterattack any lodgments. If Lord Connington knew his business, which by all reports he did, he could exact a very high toll indeed for the army's continued passage down the Kingsroad.

Fortunately, Rickard had confidence in the army that had fallen to his command as the first among equals of the Lords Declarant. On the left were the Valemen under Jon Arryn, twenty-five thousand foot. On the right were the riverlanders, twenty-one thousand foot under Hoster Tully. And in the center were his own northmen, fifteen thousand foot under Eddard, his second son. Brandon, Robert Baratheon, and the twenty-five thousand horse that was the combined cavalry strength of the Lords Declarant, were on a special task.

Opposite them were drawn up fifteen thousand men, the full strength of the Crownlands. The lances of the Gaunts and the ram's head of the Rambtons fluttered over the royalist left, opposite the riverlanders, while the wings of the Stauntons, the seahorse of the Velaryons, and the lamb of the Stokeworths flew over the royalist right, opposite the Valemen. In the center, however, was the main strength of the royalists, the mace and dagger of the Chelsteds, the antlers of the Buckwells, the chevrons of the Rosbys, and the swordfish of the Bar Emmons, all under the Connington griffins. Normally, Rickard wouldn't consider them to be more than middling dangerous as opponents, but ensconced behind the thick hedgerows as they were, they had to be considered very dangerous indeed. Which was why the infantry of the Lord's Declarant had been standing still for three hours now, waiting for the signal from their commander, who was in turn waiting for the signal from the cavalry he had sent on an outflanking mission. Sergeant Barnes's cutthroats had found a sunken lane that curved around the complex of fields and came out on the south side of the field. Once the cavalry was in a position to attack the royalist army in the rear, they would send up a smoke signal to alert the infantry to attack. Rickard glanced up at the sun. It was almost an hour past noon. If the signal did not go up soon, then there would be hardly enough daylight left to both fight the battle and mount a pursuit. And without a pursuit, they could hardly hope to destroy this army so thoroughly as to knock it out of the war altogether, instead of just brushing it aside only to have it rematerialize in their rear and threaten the Riverlands.

"My lord, look," one of the trumpeters said suddenly, gesturing off to the right. Rickard squinted and saw a lean column of off-white smoke climbing into the sky. He grinned wolfishly. Twenty-five thousand cavalry were now in the left rear of the royalist army and were ready to attack as soon as the infantry went in. He turned to the trumpeters. "Sound the advance," he ordered, provoking a chorus of brassy squeals that sent the infantry marching forward.

XXX

Bucky grinned. His Pathfinders had gotten the rebel cavalry onto the royalist flank undetected, thanks in no small part to the aggressiveness with which they had prosecuted their orders to screen the rebel advance. If this Connington person had more than a dozen scouts left that were fit for service, he would be very surprised indeed.

Beside him, Brandon perked up as a faint trumpet call drifted their way. "They're going in," he said eagerly, flexing his hand in its gauntlet. "Gods witness, this is going to work."

"I still say this is too overcomplicated," Robert grumbled, shifting his grip on his lance. "But if it works, we'll be in cream from here to King's Landing. Now let's get on with it!" Robert might have cut back on his drinking and ceased patronizing whores, but one thing about him that hadn't changed was his love of a good fight. He regarded the royalist army like a glutton eyeing a feast.

Brandon nodded and turned in his saddle. "Elbert, Denys! Take your knights and hit their left! Don't muck about, just run right into them! Ser Brynden! Take your men, swing around their rear, and come down on their right! Robert, you and I will go into their center. I want a griffin's head for my wall. Wait for my command!"

"Let my archers give them a volley first, sir," Barnes said. "Once you're in I'll send my clansmen in after you."

Brandon nodded. "Make it so, Sergeant," he said. Ten minutes later, as the rebel infantry marched within bowshot of the royalist lines, he turned to Bucky, nodded sharply, and then hefted his lance and turned in the saddle to his cavalry. "For justice and our rights!" he shouted as the arrows nocked the clothyard arrows and bent their bows, "Follow me! Attack!" Twenty-five thousand horsemen raked back their spurs and the earth quaked as the charge built up speed. Within twenty minutes, the royalist army was in flight with rebel horsemen riding them down with lance and sword.


	7. Chapter 7

Lewyn Martell, sometime Prince of Dorne and now a knight of the Kingsguard, paced softly in front of the door to his niece's chambers. Elia had borne up magnificently under the strain of her husband's attempted abduction of the Stark girl and his subsequent capture, as well as the civil war, but long days of walking on eggshells around Aerys left her exhausted. Thankfully, Aerys hadn't yet decided to punish her for Doran's sluggishness in responding to the royal call to arms, but Lewyn knew it was only a matter of time, especially after the disaster that had befallen young Connington and left King's Landing all but defenseless except for the gold cloaks. If Elia came to harm because of Doran's mulishness, Lewyn vowed, his nephew would rue the day he was born. He, Lewyn Martell, would make sure of it.

He turned about to pace back up the hall and found himself face to face with a man half a head taller than him. He snatched at his sword and drew breath to shout an alarm, but the stranger seized him at wrist and throat with a vise-like grip so that his sword remained sheathed and his shout died stillborn. He went for his dagger but the hand at his throat squeezed and clouds gathered on the edge of his vision.

"Leave it," the stranger commanded softly. "I like your style, but if you rush me, I will kill you. I have a few questions that I need you to answer. Blink once for yes and twice for no. Do you understand me?"

Lewyn blinked. He had no idea what the stranger intended, but if he needed him to answer questions, then he needed him alive. As long as he remained alive, he still had a chance to protect Elia.

"First question, then. Are you Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard?"

Lewyn blinked.

"Good. Second question. Do you want to get your niece and her children out of this stinking shithole of a city and someplace safe?"

Lewyn blinked. If Elia and her children could be got to safety, then King's Landing could burn to the ground for all he cared.

"Good. Because that is my mission here, and it would be a lot easier for me if I had your help. Do I have your word as a Kingsguard and a prince of Dorne that you will not try to kill me or raise the alarm?"

Lewyn blinked once, doing his level best to give the stranger a look of offended dignity. The stranger nodded and released his grip, although he quickly grabbed Lewyn under the armpits to keep him from falling to his knees as he dragged air into his lungs. The stranger's casual strength was astonishing. The strongest man that Lewyn knew personally was Ser Gerold, the Lord Commander, and the White Bull's strength was like that of a green boy compared to whoever this was. He steadied his legs under him, drew himself up, and inclined his head to the stranger. "Prince Lewyn Martell, knight of the Kingsguard, at your service. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

"Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, Pathfinder Company, Army of the North," the stranger said. "Call me Bucky. Is your niece and her children in there?" He tipped his head at the door. Lewyn nodded. So this was the Sergeant Barnes who had killed Arthur and Oswell and captured Rhaegar. He could easily believe it. "I have a way out, but we need to get going, now."

Lewyn nodded, crossed over to the door, and softly rapped the back of his gauntlet against the wood in the pattern he and Elia had devised to let her know it was him. She barely had time to bid him come in before he pushed the door open. Elia rose from the chair where she had evidently just finished nursing little Aegon, her face a mask of studied emotionlessness. "What is it, Uncle?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

"Elia, I need you to trust me," Lewyn said seriously. "Get your walking shoes on and get Rhaenys awake, dressed, and ready to go. We are leaving."

"Leaving?" Elia asked, shock coloring her voice. "Uncle, what are you . . ." her voice trailed off as Barnes entered the room. "Who are you?" she asked, evidently startled but nonetheless defiant as she held her son to her.

"Princess Elia," Barnes said softly, "I have a message for you from your brother." His eyes slid out of focus and his voice took on a measured quality as he began to recite, evidently from memory. "'Elia, I have come to an agreement with the Lords Declarant that, in return for your safety and the safety of your children, as well as their recognition and consideration of Aegon's claim on the Iron Throne, I will keep Dorne out of this war. The man who carries this message to you is Sergeant Barnes, who is the best man that the Lords Declarant have in their service. Jon Arryn vouches for him, as does Lord Stark. Trust him, I beg you, for your children's sake. All my love, Doran.'" Barnes' eyes refocused and he stared at Elia. "Convinced, your Grace?"

Elia nodded and set Aegon down. "Uncle, will you get Rhaenys up?" she asked as she matter-of-factly re-laced her dress, ignoring how Barnes suddenly took an interest in the wall just over her head. Lewyn was already walking over to Rhaenys's room as he nodded. Five minutes later, Rhaenys was awake and dressed and Lewyn was carrying her out of her room. Elia had Aegon in a sling across her chest and had thrown a dark cloak over her shoulders while Barnes had his back against the wall by the door, evidently straining his ears. Elia finished fastening her cloak and walked over to cup Rhaenys's cheek in her fine-boned hand. "Sweetling, I need you to come with us and be very quiet. Can you do that for me?" Rhaenys nodded drowsily, at which Elia kissed her and then drew away, nodding to Barnes. "Ready to go, Sergeant Barnes," she said determinedly, cradling Aegon in his sling.

Barnes nodded, peered out into the corridor, and then beckoned for them to follow him as he padded into the corridor. Elia and Lewyn followed him, walking as quietly as they could. At the end of the corridor they were joined by a short man with lank brown hair that seemed to materialize out of a shadow and pass Barnes a double crossbow, which Barnes accepted with a nod and brought up to his shoulder without breaking stride or glancing aside, still moving as quietly as a viper. The short man, who Lewyn deemed to be a crannogman by his short stature, nodded at Lewyn and Elia and lifted a crossbow of his own, taking up position abreast of Barnes, who sidestepped to make room for his compatriot.

As the little party made their way through the Red Keep, Lewyn's respect for Barnes grew by the minute as he noted how the two northmen slid forward in a hunched, gliding walk that kept their crossbows aimed steadily down the corridor; how, when they came to an intersection, they would slow to a halt, slowly pivot around the corners to peer down the corridor, crossbows still at the ready, and only then jerk their heads to alert Lewyn and Elia to walk on; and how, when they came to a flight of stairs, they would first peer over the banister before descending. Every move they made all but shouted of well-honed skills long in the forging.

Twenty nerve-racking minutes later, Barnes brought them to a halt outside a door and lightly rapped on it in a strange, syncopated rhythm. It opened to reveal another crannogman with a loaded crossbow, who aimed it at Barnes' face. "Thunder," Barnes said coolly, as if being held at quarrel point was an everyday occurrence.

"Flash," the crannogman replied, lowering his crossbow and stepping aside. "Come in," he urged, ushering them in. Lewyn was amazed to see that not only were there seven more crannogmen in the room, which was apparently a bedchamber, but also Varys the Spider, who had two crossbows trained on him and seemed to find it mildly amusing.

"Your Graces, welcome to my humble abode," he simpered. "I hope you'll forgive me for not rising; these men are under orders to shoot me if I try to leave this chair. I gave them my word I wouldn't try anything untoward, but apparently a eunuch's word isn't worth very much these days."

"I never trust a spy," Barnes said shortly, "Especially one who's betraying his employer over a matter of principle. Your Graces, we don't have time for questions. I want to get as far away from here as we can before sunrise." He gestured at a staircase in the back wall of the room. "If you please."

Elia stepped towards the Spider, ignoring the crossbows, and curtsied. "Thank you for this, Lord Varys," she said simply. "If ever you need aid, call on House Martell and invoke my name and the names of my children."

Varys bowed low in his chair. "Gods keep you, your Grace, and your children as well." He straightened, eyes twinkling. "And may I be the first to say, 'Long live King Aegon, the Sixth of His Name.'"

Elia turned away and followed the first trio of crannogmen down the staircase. Lewyn walked up to the staircase, paused, and turned back to the Spider. "Why?" he asked simply. "Aerys trusts none more than you, except for Rossart. Why are you betraying him?"

"As I told the good sergeant, Prince Lewyn, I serve the Realm. Not Aerys, not Rhaegar, not House Targaryen, the Realm." Varys shrugged. "Someone must; so many people will sell their souls to serve a Great House such as yours but so few will serve the Realm that it needs all the servants it can get." His lips quirked into a half-smile. "Even fat eunuchs like yours truly."

Lewyn spent the rest of the night considering the eunuch's words, even while he walked down the tunnel, passed through its exit at the base of the cliffs below Maegor's Holdfast, and boarded a small boat that carried them across the Blackwater Rush to meet a clump of grey-cloaked riders with extra horses who guided them up the Blackwater Rush away from the smell of King's Landing.

 **Author's note: So basically, the Royal Army of the Crownlands has been swept away and the Martell's have defected. Just one aside before moving on to the reactions to this.**

 **One reviewer asked why Bucky doesn't just assassinate Aerys. To which my answer is, sure he could assassinate Aerys, but why would he want to? So long as Aerys is alive, he's a walking propaganda factory for the Lords Declarant, whose rebellion is predicated on the insanity and general unfitness to rule of the current management and his designated successor. If Aerys dies, then the visible figurehead of the royalists is Viserys, who is six at this point in time; the only person he's given cause to rebel at this point is his nursemaid. Essentially, it's a lot easier for the Lords Declarant to justify rebelling against Aerys than it is for them to justify rebelling against Viserys.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey, everyone!**

 **Sorry about the delay in uploading; RL has been keeping me busy. Here is the next mini-arc in this story. The first mini-arc was the abduction/elopement fail to the fall of Harroway Town, the second was the march down the Kingsroad which ended in the extraction of the Martells from King's Landing, the third is the last phase of major combat operations for the Rebellion. I'm not terribly happy with my current endgame for the Rebellion, so I'll have to kick it around some more until I have a satisfactory ending.**

 **Thank you all for your patience, and on with the show!**

"My Lord, I understand your caution, but I fear it is misplaced," Lord Tarly was saying as he planted his fists on the table. "The rebels are already besieging King's Landing and we hear from Ser Willem that the city cannot hold longer than fifteen days. We must ride to King's Landing and break the rebels as eggs between the hammer and the anvil."

"And how, my lord, do you propose to do that with young Stannis coming up the Kingsroad with the strength of the Stormlands and ten thousand Dornish spears behind him?" Mace said patiently, clamping down on his frustration. They had gone over this argument at least eight times already, during the council he had held with his lords after making camp here on the edge of the Kingswood. "Stannis may be young but he dealt with the Fells readily enough, and the Stormlords are well behind him."

"Stannis and the Dornish are weak so long as they do not join hands with the main body of the rebels outside King's Landing," Tarly said remorselessly. "If we move quickly we can fight the rebels in their separate parts and I will wager Heartsbane that victory will be ours. If the rebels unite their armies then they will have almost one hundred thousand men and I cannot guarantee our chances if we offer them battle. My Lord," he went on earnestly, "this is not the time for hesitation. We must out swords and strike, before it is too late!"

Mace glanced down at the map of the northern Stormlands spread across the table, his head aching. Tarly's words made sense, but the tone he was saying them in rankled. It was dangerous too; House Tyrell's overlordship over the Reach had always been slightly tenuous at best. If Mace made any significant missteps, then his control over the other lords of the Reach might be fatally shaken. He traced the Roseroad to its conjunction with the Kingsroad. "At last report, Stannis was at Bronzegate," he mused aloud. "From there it will take him at least a day and a half to get across the Wendwater, and four or five more days to march to King's Landing. If I give you the majority of our outriders and some light foot, can you delay that march?" At Tarly's nod, he continued on. "Excellent. Then take as many outriders as can be spared and two thousand of our archers and delay Stannis and the Dornish as long as you may. I will take the main body up the Kingsroad and attend to the rebels before King's Landing. Then we will turn back south and crush Stannis like a bug."

Tarly drew himself up and bowed. "As you command, my Lord," he said formally, before turning and walking out of the pavilion. Mace smiled mirthlessly. He had effectively relegated Tarly to a sideshow, leaving himself placed to reap all the glory of the rebel's defeat. Aerys might be mad, but he would have to acknowledge his debt to the man who saved his crown. Mace's eyes brightened at the thought of it; honor given to House Tyrell, the Hand's chain about his neck, the Small Council and the Court dominated by Reachmen, and who knew? If the child beneath his wife's heart was a girl, perhaps young Viserys would wed a Tyrell?

The only limit after that, Mace thought as he reached for his wineglass, would be the very skies.

XXX

Bucky drew his dirk and sketched a quick map in the dirt as his platoon commanders knelt around him. "Situation is as follows. Command has decided that King's Landing is less important than cleaning up the last major royalist army in the field. To that end, Lord Nestor Royce will remain before King's Landing with five hundred horse and two thousand foot to mask the city and keep it under siege, while the rest of the army moves south along the Kingsroad. From there, we will do one of two things." Bucky indicated the crossroads of the Kingsroad and the Roseroad in the Kingswood. "If we reach the crossroads before the Reachmen, we will link up with Lord Stannis's army and the Dornish and give battle to the Reachmen within the forest. If we do not, then we will drive the Reachmen down the Kingsroad and either wear it down by continual action or pin it against either Stannis's force or the banks of the Wendwater, whichever we reach first, and destroy it in detail."

Martyn, the gaunt forester from the Wolfswood, grimaced. "That's going to be a hard row to hoe, Sergeant," he said uneasily. "The Reachmen have near enough equal numbers to us, and we won't be able to use our cavalry very well in those trees."

Rickon raised a hand. "I agree with Martyn, Sergeant," he said. "My lads are good, but we can't go toe to toe with knights like we'll have to in that forest."

Bucky nodded. "Duly noted, but keep in mind, the Reachmen will have just as much trouble operating in that forest as we will. More, if anything; by all reports, the Reachmen don't have anywhere near our level of discipline or fieldcraft. If we knock them back on their heels and keep hitting them, we can run them ragged from here to Dorne. Which Command assured me is the plan. Our job," he continued, "is to eliminate their outriders and other scouts, drive in their pickets, and create as much general mayhem as we can. Willam, Martyn, we'll be relying on your platoons for this, your boys are best at broken country work. Rickon, your gang will be our flying squad. If Willam or Martyn get in trouble, take your riders in and lend a hand until the Reachmen are on the run. One more thing." He looked up at his commanders. "We've been given command of the whole army's outriders and scouts. Most probably aren't up to our standards, but they'll serve to add weight to the skirmish line. Don't take any guff from their officers; if they disobey orders, kill the insubordinate bastard and take personal control. I'll take responsibility with Command. Questions?" At the round of shaking heads, Bucky stood, wiped his dirk against his trouser leg, and sheathed it. "All right, then. Let's get to it."

XXX

Ser Boros Blount swished the warm, stale water around his mouth and spat it onto the road, where it left a dark stain in the dust. _Barely noon and already hot as the seventh hell, Gods help me_ , he thought sourly as he contemplated the stretch of road he was supposed to be guarding. _Road? Deer trail more like, and not exactly a highway even for them._ The undergrowth here was dense; ferns that came up to your hips and thick boxwood that gave way to oak and maple and beech higher up. Boros could hardly see further than twenty yards into the trees.

 _Now why couldn't we have some outriders here doing their jobs, instead of pissing around the Wendwater trying to stop an army all by themselves?_ Boros thought as he swirled the water in his canteen. _Oh right, Lord Tarly got a hair up his ass and Lord Tyrell let him run away with it._ The Royal Army of the Reach, seventy-five thousand men, had barely two thousand outriders covering its northern flank. Even if they concentrated on guarding only those trails that could be used by significant numbers of men, they were still stretched thin even before the rebels starting cutting them apart in a darting, desperate little war under the trees. Which was why there were twenty spearmen and a dozen archers watching this particular trail, with Boros to command them. They had been led to this particular point in the trail by an outrider who had never stopped scanning the trees as if he expected an attack at any moment, with orders to hold the position until two hours past dawn the next day. If they saw any rebels, they were to send a runner back to the army to tell Lord Tyrell and hold their position until reinforcements arrived.

Boros spat into a clump of wildflowers whose bright petals seemed almost deliberately insulting. He had been at Ivy Inn when the rebel horsemen suddenly appeared in their rear and the whole army had fallen apart. If he was still alive and uncaptured it was because he knew when to turn his horse's head for the hills and rake back the spurs. He had been picked up by a group of other royalist fugitives under the command of an old diehard from House Stokeworth that had made its way south to join with the Reachmen. The Stokeworth diehard was dead now, courtesy of an arrow from ambush and given a shallow grave with only a few words over his corpse before the dirt was shoveled back in. Which went to show what devotion got you, if you asked Boros.

Boros raised his canteen to his mouth and was about to tip it back to drink when a hammerblow smashed it out of his hand. He just had time to look down at it on the ground and register the almost absurdly long arrow that was protruding out of it before he realized that his men were falling around him. "Ambush!" he shouted, ducking his head and taking an arrow that skidded off the crown of his helmet with a neck-jarring impact as he dragged his horse's head around. An archer nearby loosed a shaft into the undergrowth and was rewarded with an arrow that punched through his ribcage and nailed him to the tree behind him. "Retreat, men! Retreat!" Boros yelled as he put the spurs to his horse. If they could at least get close enough to the army that the noise of the fight was noticed, they might yet survive this.

Boros's horse had just started to canter when it suddenly gave a neighing scream and began to collapse under him. Horseman's instinct got Boros halfway out of the saddle before the beast collapsed, but that meant that his lower leg was caught between ground and saddle instead of his thigh. Boros howled in pain as his vision grayed out for a long moment, but even as he howled he started to tug his leg free. He had to get up, he had to _move_. The stories about what the northmen did to their prisoners were gruesome and Boros didn't want to find out if they were true.

He finally wrenched his leg free and staggered to his feet to find that of the thirty men under his command, only ten were still on their feet. A half-dozen spearmen had clumped together in a knot with four archers in the center, hunkering down behind the shields and only standing up to shoot. Boros stagger-hopped his way to the little shieldwall, but by the time he got there two of the archers and one of the spearmen were already down. Boros snatched up a dead spearman's shield and went to one knee, the shield slanting up from the ground in front of his good leg to cover his whole body from ground to visor with his sword held underarm and ready to stab. A pair of arrows thunked into the shield and another spanged off the side of his helmet barely an inch from the vision slit of his visor and then there was a crashing roar of "Stark and the North!" and the undergrowth seemed to sprout men in fur-covered armor with spears, axes, maces, and swords, pelting through the brush towards him. Boros squawked in terror as the northmen covered the last few yards at a dead run and then there was no time to think. Boros lashed out blindly with his sword until an enormous blow knocked the sword from his hand and another one smashed him onto his back. Boros caught a glimpse of a broad-bladed axe raised overhead and didn't have enough time to blurt "I yield!" before the axe came down and slammed him down into the darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

_The final phase of conflict in the Rebellion of the Lords Declarant, or as the United Westerosi Nationalist Party has dubbed it, the First Westerosi War of Independence, played out over the course of fifteen days in the Kingswood, the last four of which passed in almost continual, if only loosely connected, action. Starting around the 870s, it became the historical vogue to regard those last four days as separate battles, but in more recent years a re-revisionist movement among historians has resulted in a reversion to considering the Kingswood campaign as a single battle four days long, preceded by eleven days of maneuvering and skirmishing. This is due largely to a new appreciation that each day of battle influenced the next, even if only lightly, and that the Lords Declarant, at least, had a coherent and overarching plan of action that they tried to impose on the battle._

 _The first day of action began when the leading edge of the Royal Army of the Reach, a column of knights primarily consisting of Hightower, Beesbury, Bulwer, and Costayne men, was attacked at the crossroads of the Kingsroad and the Roseroad by a contingent of Vale and Riverland knights led by Robert Baratheon . . ._

This is how you fight when you are Robert Baratheon.

It starts softly, at first, the singing in your ears. You first notice it when you give the order to advance and tighten your grip on your lance, a faint tone in your ears like a far-away whistle. As the knights around you break into a trot and the dust of the road begins to rise like smoke that tone grows, little by little until it starts to fill your ears so that you can hear little else.

The storm-rage, Maester Cressen called it when you asked him about it years and years ago, before Mother and Father died. A legacy of the Durrandons, a fighting-madness that imparts strength and courage beyond that of ordinary men. Apparently Great-Grandfather Lyonel, the Laughing Storm, had it, as did various other men of the Baratheon line.

All that you care about is that when the storm-rage takes you, it makes you stronger than any man in Westeros. When the storm-rage takes you, the blood in your veins becomes liquid fire and your lungs expand until you think that they might burst out of your chest. Even Jon Arryn's household guardsmen, fighting you ten to one, cannot hope to defeat you. Of all the men you have fought, only Ned has lasted more than two or three passes. It's why you like and respect him so much; the dour, sober-sided wolf that can only enjoy himself with extreme difficulty once held his ground against you for a full three minutes of cut and thrust, until you both staggered to a halt from mutual exhaustion.

Not even being with Lyanna makes you feel as purely _alive_ as the storm-rage does.

By now the knights are around the bend in the road and spurring up to the canter and the Reachmen are only a hundred yards away, too close for further thought. Countless hours of practice bring your lance down and couch it under your armpit, the point aimed unwaveringly at a knight wearing the cups and flowers of the Costaynes. The singing in your ears is deafening now, drowning out everything but the thunder of hooves as the world narrows to the point of your lance and the knight you're aiming it at. The singing is momentarily broken by the rippling crash of lances on shields and armor as the charge strikes home, but as you leave your broken lance in the Costayne knight's breastplate and snatch your war hammer out of its loop at your saddlebow it picks back up again. And the only sounds that register through the high, strident tone are the clash of steel and the booming of your own laughter.

 _Baratheon's charge into the royalist vanguard was so effective that the Reachmen broke in disarray. The majority were rallied by Lord Hightower and reformed on the center of the army, but many were driven south along the Kingsroad. Most of these were picked up by Lord Tarly's advanced task force, but the majority of these were in no fit state to fight and the news they bore struck a heavy blow to the morale of Tarly's men._

 _Some scholars hold that this was the decisive action of the battle, as it prevented the main body of the Royal Army of the Reach from reuniting with Tarly's task force and separating the Lords Declarant from the joint armies of Stannis Baratheon and Oberyn Martell marching up from the Stormlands. Others claim that the true decisive action came either at Wendwater Bridge or Wolf Glade. This author believes that no one action during the Battle of the Kingsroad was more decisive than the others, but rather that the cumulative effect of the actions proved decisive._

\- _Crucible: The Reforging of Westeros from the Lords Declarant to the Revolution_ by Jon Tarly, published 1015 A.C.


	10. Chapter 10

_The Army of the North considers itself to have come of age during the Revolution, when its regimental system became wholly professionalized, but it first cut its teeth in the Rebellion of the Lords Declarant. As the most professional force at the disposal of the Lords Declarant, even if today's soldiers would consider it more of a militia than anything, it rapidly became the shock army of the Rebellion, and this reputation was cemented at Wolf Glade . . ._

This is how you fight when you are Eddard Stark.

You don't like fighting. At least not for its own sake, like Robert and Brandon. You're good at it, to be sure; you swung your first practice sword at the age of six and you've had the best training available to two of the most powerful lords in Westeros. But for all your skill, you can't bring yourself to love it.

That isn't important though. Rhaegar Targaryen stole your sister and it is only by the grace of the Gods and the skill of Sergeant Barnes that she was returned safely. And Aerys the Mad has threatened to burn your family out of the world root and branch and leave Winterfell as a pile of rubble. Either of these on their own would be sufficient cause for war. Taken together, you know you have no choice but to either destroy House Targaryen or at least render it no threat to your family.

Which is why you are here, in the center of the Winterfell Regiment, only a step behind the front rank. Men fight better when they are led from the front, instead of herded from the rear, but at the same time your father has cautioned you against taking unnecessary risks. "It may be that you will need to become more than I originally intended you to be, if Brandon carries on as he has," he had said, looking old for the first time in your memory. That same day he gave you your first lesson in what he calls the game of thrones.

You wish he hadn't. Being a simple younger son, with a simple future ahead of him as lord of a small holdfast and strong right arm to an elder brother who was raised to be a great lord, was so much simpler. But that, it seems, is not the future that the Gods have in mind for you.

If it had been, you would not have met Ashara Dayne.

You thrust away the memory of lissome grace and laughing violet eyes; the regiment is approaching the edge of the trees. You have been up since midnight, following one of Sergeant Barnes' merry band of cutthroats towards a certain glade that you are told contains the majority of the Reachmen's main body. On the face of it, attacking almost thirty thousand men with just under fifteen thousand foot and three thousand horse seems suicidal, but you have five thousand men of the Riverlands with you, and by great good fortune you have arrived at the edge of the glade just as the sky is turning from gray to orange with twilight. The Reachmen are only starting to wake up and rub the sleep out of their eyes; they should be easy meat for your men. Especially since there are no sentries to cry alarm; Sergeant Barnes must have attended to that.

You turn to the sergeant-major to give the order to deploy for battle only to find that it's already been done, the spearmen shaking out from column of march to line of battle with the swordsmen and axe-fighters close behind. Your place is by the banner party, two men bearing the regiment's banners, three feet by four feet of white linen with the grey direwolf of House Stark, guarded by a quartet of hard-eyed color sergeants with greatswords. You yourself have your trusty bastard sword that was a gift from Lord Arryn for your last nameday, thirty-seven inches of castle-forged steel with a plain cross hilt and a scent-stopper pommel. You shift your shoulders one last time to make sure your armor's seated right and draw the blade as you look down the line in either direction at the other regiments finishing forming up.

You mutter a quick prayer to the Old Gods for strength and skill and courage and nod to the trumpeter next to you. Time to go, before the Reachmen have time to fully wake up. The trumpeter raises his oxhorn trumpet to his lips and gives voice to a long, two-step rising blast and the whole line moves forward in ragged unison. As the advance clears the trees and builds up to a full-blown charge you raise your sword and drown out fear with a roar of "Winterfell!" which is answered by a thousand throats and provokes a general bellow of "Stark and the North!" as the charge strikes home.

 _If Wolf Glade was the first true test of the Army of the North, it boded well for the future. By ten a.m. the main body of the Royal Army of the Reach was put to flight and only a self-sacrificial charge by Lord Alester Florent and his household knights that rocked the Northern cavalry back on their heels prevented the retreat from becoming a rout. Florent's Death Ride, as it was later named, bought Mace Tyrell enough time to establish a defensive line near the village of Twinoak, so named for the double-trunked oak tree that grew in the village square. This previously almost unknown village would become legendary the next day._

\- _Crucible: The Reforging of Westeros from the Lords Declarant to the Revolution_ by Jon Tarly, published 1015 A.C.


	11. Chapter 11

_While the main army of the Lords Declarant fought the main body of the Royal Army of the Reach at the Crossroads and Wolf Glade, another drama was playing out at Wendwater Bridge, where Lord Randyll Tarly, the most renowned commander of the Reach, faced off against a joint army of Stormlanders and Dornishmen led by Stannis Baratheon and Oberyn Martell. These two men, prima facie diametric opposites personality-wise, forged an unlikely partnership that would yield unexpected dividends . . ._

This is how you fight when you are Oberyn Martell

Men do not call you the Red Viper without reason. To begin with, there is the widely-held belief that you poison your weapons (Which is actually true, for once; the head of the spear your squire holds ready for you has been coated in a fast-acting snake venom). For another thing, the way you fight is remarkably similar to the way a viper strikes. Not for you the careening charge and the prolonged death-grapple of the knights of the Reach. You keep your distance and rely on the length of your reach to commit swift, darting attacks. Quickly in, quickly out, and either kill with the first strike or let the poison do its work. If you have to attack the same target again, repeat the formula until you don't need to anymore. It's a strategy that has given a fearsome reputation.

Which is why you're the one feinting at the bridge while young Stannis is taking his knights in search of a certain ford that a forester in the service of Lord Buckler remembers. With your personal banner here, the sun and spear of Dorne differenced with the label of three points denoting you as the younger brother of the line, Tarly's attention will be fully fixed on any attempt to cross the bridge, blinding him to his flanks. Such, at least, is the plan you and young Stannis worked out.

You snort to yourself. Young? At eighteen namedays Stannis is a man grown and only seven years younger than you are. Also quite handsome, in a hard-faced, brooding fashion. If only these northerners were not so narrow-minded . . . you shrug to yourself. Such a waste, but that's life for you.

You turn your attention back to the bridge, where the latest in a string of sorties you have sent out is trotting back. Uller men, these, hard-riding horse archers from the banks of the River Brimstone. You've spent the morning sending them and their counterparts from the other desert houses to probe Tarly's defenses on the far bank of the Wendwater. Partly to prolong the distraction, partly in a genuine effort to seek out any weakness in Tarly's lines. When Stannis attacks Tarly's flank, you will go lunging across the bridge to complete the rout, but you do not plan to do so indiscriminately. Every spearman in your army is a precious resource to be husbanded like water in the desert; you and your brother stripped the Dornish interior to build this army and if you break it, there will not be another for a generation.

Normally you find Doran to be a bit of a worrywart, but in this you agree with him. Dorne's position in the Seven Kingdoms is fragile enough without crippling her army.

You are about to order another sortie out when there is a sudden trumpet blast and the woods across the river seem to explode into boiling motion. You lean forward, peering . . . yes, that _is_ the black stag on yellow of the Baratheons on the lance of that knight there.

You toss aside your waterskin and shout commands as you don your helmet and hold out your hand for your spear. Stannis has upheld his part of the plan, now you must complete it. Ten thousand Dornishmen step off towards the river at the trot and you spur your horse to the front, followed by the conroi of knights that you have taken as your personal guard. You are first across the bridge, hooves booming hollowly over the planks, and the first into the Reachmen, with the battle-joy fully upon you as you bore a hole through their line with the chivalry of Dorne behind you.

 _The Battle of Wendwater Bridge resulted in the destruction of the majority of Lord Tarly's force and the dispersal of what remained, allowing the combined armies of Dorne and the Stormlands to link up with the main army of the Lords Declarant two days later. It was also the first performance of what would become one of military history's great double acts, as Stannis Baratheon and Oberyn Martell cemented the partnership that would set Westeros on the path to military predominance in the Narrow Sea . . ._

\- _A Beautiful Friendship: Oberyn Martell and Stannis Baratheon from the Rebellion to the Wars of the Three Daughters_ by Archmaester Boyega, published 1329 AC


	12. Chapter 12

_The final act of the drama that was the Kingswood campaign was the battle at Twinoak, where the main body of the Royal Army of the Reach and the main strength of the Lords Declarant first met in pitched battle. The Crossroads had been a collision of advanced parties and Wolf Glade a clash between vanguards, but Twinoak was to be a set-piece battle . . . The battle consisted largely of the Lords Declarant assaulting the defensive line established by Lord Mace Tyrell which centered on the village, and Tyrell's efforts to counter the rebel's attacks. By the second hour past noon, the armies had been fighting for almost seven hours, with heavy casualties on both sides. Insofar as he had not been forced out of his positions, the advantage lay with Lord Tyrell, but the ferocity of the combat had taken its toll on him. Eyewitness accounts disagree on the details but they agree that Lord Tyrell became increasingly "unseated" throughout the day; especially after a particularly violent charge by a trio of Northern regiments came so near to breaking the line that he was forced to commit his cavalry reserve to repel them. It was at this point that the Pathfinder Company of the Army of the North, which had been dispatched to guide a force onto the royalist flank, came into position and launched its assault . . ._

This is how you fight when you are the Winter Soldier.

You are not Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. You are not Bucky. What you are instead is a bundle of augmented muscles, enhanced nerves, reinforced sinews, and layer upon layer of training and conditioning that goes beyond conscious thought. In combat, there is no time to think; there is only action and reaction. And you both act and react without your brain getting in the way.

Just above your kidneys, your adrenal glands are working overtime, pumping adrenaline into your system in such high amounts that you are just shy of overdosing. When the adrenaline reaches your already enhanced physiology and reacts with the combat conditioning that HYDRA implanted in your brain, the result is strength, speed, and ferocity beyond that of regular mortals.

You are not quite the penultimate fighting machine, but you are damned close.

Not that you are aware of this.

You are aware of only three things. Threats, Assets, and The Mission. These are self-explanatory categories. And you are currently in the thick of a horde of Threats, because your Mission is close and you have to complete it.

You do not care that you are leaving a trail of bodies behind you so thick that men will later claim that you were a god of war incarnate. You care only that every Threat eliminated brings you one step closer to your Mission. When your Mission turns and flees, your only reaction is a soundless snarl as you increase your pace, trying to catch up. But there are too many Threats between you and the Mission, who gains too long a head start by spurring his horse until the blood flows freely, and so in the end you can only stand, breathing heavily as the adrenaline starts to wear off, and as you fade back into the recesses of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes' mind, you have just enough time to wonder why everyone around you is looking at you with mixture of awe and fear.

 _Sergeant Barnes' charge into the royalist army is widely credited with routing the royalists and securing the day for the Lords Declarant. On top of his previous exploits, Sergeant Barnes' attack also cemented his reputation as the best warrior in Westeros, if not the world. Up until the 950s, there was a cult that worshipped Sergeant Barnes as the incarnation of the Warrior, the Faith of the Seven's god of war, and even today the Faith of the Old Gods considers him to have been a divine champion sent to aid the followers of the Old Gods in their hour of need . . ._

\- _The Fist of the North: A Biography of James Buchanan Barnes, The Winter Soldier_ by Tom Fletcher, published 1847 AC


	13. Chapter 13

**Fawnton**

Mace Tyrell leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes wearily. The last of the stragglers were coming in, and Lord Tarly was expected momentarily, along with the remnants of his force. How the man had gotten away from Oberyn Martell and around the main rebel army, he could not begin to imagine, but he wouldn't put it past the man to have force-marched his men from Wendwater Bridge all the way to Fawnton, and that cross-country.

It had been four days since the Battle of Twinoak, where his dreams of propelling House Tyrell to the heights of power had collapsed around his ears. Gods curse that Sergeant Barnes creature, who or whatever he was. Some of the men had started whispering that he was the Warrior made flesh during the first few hours of the retreat and they had yet to stop. The more popular opinion was that he was a demon summoned by Lord Stark from beyond the Wall. Whatever he was, he was plainly not human.

The murmur of his secretary announcing Lord Tarly prompted him to drag his eyes open and survey the man who strode into the room. Between the state of his armor (battered, dented, crusted with dried blood), the bandage on his left forearm (crude and stained, though not completely filthy), and the look on his face (exhaustion held at bay by main willpower), Tarly looked like he'd been through one of the Seven Hells. Even so, he still crashed to attention and slammed his gauntleted fist against his breastplate in a palace salute that would have been approved of by even the fiercest martinet. Mace levered himself out of the chair and returned the salute gravely (the decencies had to be observed) and waved Tarly into the chair opposite him.

"Well, we wanted a battle and by the Gods the rebels gave us one," Mace said without preamble. "Broke our vanguard at the Crossroads, bloodied our main body the next day at Wolf Glade, and then gave us an almighty beating at Twinoak. My secretary says we have less than fifty thousand men fit to fight, and their morale is poor at best. How is it with your men?"

"Worse," Tarly said dully. "Martell and the younger Baratheon made a proper jester out of me at Wendwater Bridge; had Martell occupy my attention while Baratheon got across the river and came down on my flank. Less than two thousand men stayed with me in the retreat, and barely a thousand kept up the pace to get here with me. They won't be fit to fight for at least a day or two, not until they get a full night's rest and some decent food." He paused and then continued in a strained voice. "In hindsight, my Lord, my leading the outriders away from the main army was probably an error."

Mace looked at him in surprise. He had never heard Tarly admit that he was wrong before, indirectly or otherwise. "I've had a message from the rebels," he said, "offering an armistice if we will withdraw our support from Aerys and acknowledge Aegon as the rightful king. Under the circumstances, my Lord, do you truly believe we stand to gain by refusing such terms?"

Tarly's jaw worked for a long minute as he glowered at the goblet of wine Mace's secretary (a gloriously efficient and unobtrusive fellow, that, he deserved a pay raise) had placed in his hand before shaking his head. "No," he said flatly. "The army is in no fit state to continue this campaign and the full strength of the rebels is united. If Lord Tywin does not see fit to bestir himself on behalf of the King, then the war is lost. We must secure the best terms we can for the Reach, while we still have a position to negotiate from."

Mace nodded in agreement with the unstated observation. Fifty thousand horse and foot, even as battered and downcast as they were, was still a formidable army, and it was only a portion of the strength of the Reach. House Tyrell's weakness in the game of thrones had always been overmighty and unduly ambitious bannermen, not any lack of raw strength. "Aegon is a babe in arms, in any case," he replied. "There will be plenty of time for us to get into his good graces. And too much of the Seven Kingdoms depends on the surplus of our harvests to increase their winter reserves to alienate us permanently." He might not be a born warrior like Tarly, or as intelligent as one of the Hightowers, but the power of food was something every scion of Highgarden learned from childhood. In the end it was the only wealth that was really _real_. You couldn't eat gold or silver. He paused a moment, and then continued. "You have served House Tyrell very well these past few weeks, Lord Tarly," he said. "I will remember it, while I am Lord of Highgarden."

Tarly bowed his head stiffly. "I will admit, my Lord, that I was not very impressed with you when you first took up your father's duties. I let that opinion cloud my judgment of you. I was wrong."

Mace suppressed an impulse to shed a tear (it had been so long since someone had given him honest praise) and raised his wine-cup. "To the Reach," he said formally, "and to the health of King Aegon, the Sixth of his Name, long may he reign."

Tarly raised his cup. "To the Reach and King Aegon," he intoned as he drank deep.

XXX

 **Glade Coe, Camp of the Lords Declarant**

Eddard Stark ran the whetstone down the length of his sword one last time, stuffed it back in his wallet, and began to rub the blade with a swatch of raw wool. The wool would both remove any metal flecks left from the sharpening and add a thin film of lanolin to the surface of the blade to prevent corrosion.

He had a squire to do this for him, a weasel-faced Frey named Walton who was dutiful enough, but Eddard had learned to take care of his sword personally. That way you knew exactly what condition it was in and you knew it from pommel to tip like you knew your own arms.

A slight clearing of a throat brought his eyes up from the blade and then brought him scrambling to his feet as he recognized Elia Martell. "Please, Ser Eddard, sit down," the Dornish princess said with a slight smile. "We've both had a very long day and I could use some time off my feet, as I'm sure you could."

"Of course, Your Grace," Eddard said hesitantly as he sat gestured the princess towards the camp chair he had been sitting in and sat back down against the oak tree he had pitched his tent under. He caught Prince Lewyn's eye and gave him a respectful nod, which was returned. Lewyn Martell never willingly left the side of his niece these days, especially since she almost never went anywhere without her son, who was both his grand-nephew and his King, even if the coronation had yet to take place. "All went well at the council, I trust?" he asked.

"It did," Elia replied, shifting the baby King in her arms. "Lord Tyrell accepted the terms of the armistice, and said that as a gesture of good faith he would withdraw his army down the Blueburn to Longtable." She looked up from her son and smiled. "I don't think I've congratulated you yet on your knighthood. Well done."

Eddard bowed his head in thanks. "I thank Your Grace," he said, keeping his voice steady with an effort, "I only hope I can live up to it." He hadn't been the only man knighted after the Battle of Twinoak or even the only Stark. Brandon had received the accolade as well, as had more than thirty other young lords who had distinguished themselves in the fighting. But if the honors had been many, so had the losses. Lords Darry, Mooton, and Ryger were all dead, and Lord Goodbrook badly wounded. Lord Frey had emerged unscathed, but no less than four of his sons had died in the fighting and three others had been wounded more or less severely. Ser Denys Arryn had also died, while Ser Elbert would have a prominent facial scar as a memento of Twinoak. Brandon had come within a hairsbreadth of getting killed himself, which had left him unusually somber, while Eddard himself had had more close calls than he liked to think about. "Has there been any word from King's Landing?" he asked, wrenching his mind away from one heart-stopping recollection of a Reachman coming at him with an axe that he knew intellectually had to be of a regular size but in the moment had seemed ridiculously large.

Elia nodded. "The city remains under siege, but apparently Aerys has sent the Royal Fleet to Dragonstone, along with Queen Rhaella and Viserys. Aerys has barricaded himself in Maegor's Holdfast and sworn not to be taken alive. Lord Varys has sent word that he is in communication with certain friends of his to try and negotiate a surrender of at least the city, if not the Red Keep." Elia raised an eyebrow at Eddard. "Did you know that Aerys had the gold cloaks and the garrison of the Red Keep decimated when he found out that rebels had gotten inside and out again at will? Ser Willem Darry, the master at arms, and Manly Stokeworth, who commanded the gold cloaks, the shift commanders, and one in ten of the gold cloaks and guardsmen who were on duty that night were all executed. All doused in wildfire and then set alight. Lord Merryweather and Lord Chelsted were also executed when they protested. Now Wisdom Rossart of the Alchemist's Guild is the Hand."

Eddard shook his head. "If anyone needed proof that Aerys was mad, that should do the job," he said. "Who did he send to Dragonstone with the Queen and Viserys, if Ser Willem was executed?"

"Ser Jonothor Darry and Ser Barristan Selmy were sent with them. Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Jaime Lannister remain in the Red Keep with Aerys," Elia replied. "Lord Arryn, Lord Tully, and Lord Stark have given orders that the army march back to King's Landing to force a surrender." She cocked an eyebrow. "Oberyn tells me that he has a letter for your father from Lord Asric Dayne."

Eddard's hands paused in rubbing the blade of his sword of their own accord. "Is that so?" he asked, inspecting his blade and sheathing it. "Did he mention what it was about?"

Elia shook her head. "Oberyn is a rake, but he is not given to reading other people's correspondence. That being said, I think that when your father and Lord Dayne next meet, you should be present." She smiled mischievously. "You will probably have a lot of explaining to do, but I shouldn't worry. Lord Dayne loves his sister very much."

Eddard flushed. "Of course," he said slowly, thrusting the image of Ashara Dayne out of his head and standing up. "If Your Grace will excuse me, I have a great deal of work to do to get my regiment ready for the road."

"By all means, Ser Eddard," Elia said, regal as anyone Eddard had ever seen. "Give my regards to your regiment, if you would."

XXX

 **Maegor's Holdfast**

"Wildfire?" Gerold Hightower choked in astonishment. "Under the city?"

Jaime Lannister nodded. "Enough to burn the whole city to ash, from the Red Keep down to Flea Bottom. Aerys told me so himself."

Ser Gerold Hightower bent his head and pinched the bridge of his nose with a gauntleted hand. "Good gods, what can we do?" he asked wearily. "One spark and the whole city goes up."

"Not quite," Jaime said, his young face terribly earnest. "Rossart says the wildfire is enclosed underground at a few major structures, the Red Keep, the Dragonpit, Baelor's, the gates, all under lock and key. Only Rossart, Garigus, and Belis know where the caches are and have the keys to access them. All we need do is secure those three and the plot is foiled."

Gerold nodded. "Good. If it comes to it, I can handle Rossart; the king keeps him close by at all times. Can you see to Garigus and Belis?"

Jaime nodded. "Easily," he said confidently. "Pyromancers make poor warriors. That leaves only the king."

"We cannot do anything to the king," Gerold said flatly. "We are sworn to protect him, not judge him."

"We are also sworn to protect the weak," Jaime replied. "And if Aerys has his way he will murder half a million people because the voices in his head say it's a good idea. For the Gods' sake, Commander," he pressed on fervently, "Aerys will burn the city and everyone in it to the ground if we do not stop him! Can we not at least confine him to his quarters here in the Holdfast?"

Gerold shook his head. "We are sworn to protect, serve, and obey," he said, his gravelly voice unyielding. "When the king says to us 'jump', the only questions we may ask are 'how high' and 'where to'. Even at cost of our lives."

"And if Aerys orders you to set off the wildfire?" Jaime asked.

Gerold opened his mouth and then closed it, his mind racing. Decades of service warred against the memory of a cool spring evening in the Starry Sept, with his father's sword resting against his shoulder and his deep voice charging him with his knightly duties. His father had been so proud when Gerold joined the Kingsguard. Sometimes he wondered if his father, dead these twenty years, would be as proud of him now. "No," he said finally, forcing himself to stop trying to crush the pommel of his sword. "I would not. But I cannot break my oath to the King."

"Even when the King is not in his right mind?" Jaime asked, cocking his head at the bedchamber door. Within, Aerys, the Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, was muttering to himself, occasionally raising his voice in a shouting tirade against rebels and traitors. He had not bathed in months now and his hair and fingernails were so long as to be almost obscene for lack of trimming. "If the King is not fit to exercise his duties, then cannot he be judged unfit to rule and his heir declared Regent?"

"Which heir?" Gerold snorted mirthlessly. "Rhaegar is in a cell at Riverrun, Viserys is on Dragonstone and not of an age to rule, and Aegon is a babe in arms and the puppet of rebels to boot."

"But he need not always be so," Jaime said, his face suddenly somber. "There are those in Westeros with sufficient power to counterbalance the rebels who have not declared against the Crown."

"Like your father?" Gerold asked sharply, narrowing his eyes. Jaime lifted his chin defiantly, his eyes never leaving Gerold's. "And what would his reward be? The title of Hand returned to him, the council dominated by westermen, perhaps Viserys for his daughter's husband?"

"Does it matter?" Jaime asked. "If it keeps Aerys from burning the city down, then I say we throw open the gates and invite the Lords Declarant in right now. And if you call me a traitor for it," he added, putting a hand to his sword, "then I say that at least I remember the vows of a knight, unlike some I could name."

Only a massive effort of will prevented Gerold from drawing his sword. As it was, a full three inches of blade shown in the torchlight between cross-guard and scabbard-mouth before he stopped himself. Angry with himself for the loss of control, however momentary, he shoved the blade back into its sheath. "One day," he ground out, "there will be a reckoning between us for those words. Until then, keep Garigus and Belis under close observation. If Aerys orders the wildfire lit, kill them and kill Rossart if I do not do it first. But be warned, Jaime Lannister, if you raise a hand against your king, then you will have to go through me to do it. I will not be forsworn."

"Nor will I," snarled the Young Lion of Lannister as he turned on his heel and strode away down the corridor. Gerold released the hilt of his sword and forced himself to relax. Lannister would relieve him at the hour of the bat and be relieved in turn at the second hour past dawn. Maintaining a round-the-clock guard with only two Kingsguards was proving a taxing affair just as a matter of getting enough sleep. When one added in the king's madness . . . Aerys's voice escalated into another rant against traitors and Gerold sighed. _Gods, give me wisdom,_ he prayed silently, _you know how much I need it._


	14. Chapter 14

**Outside King's Landing**

 _Say what you like about the Northmen, they know how to treat their soldiers,_ Bronn mused as he watched sipped his wine and watched the party developing in the Northmen's camp. This particular regiment, Umber men from the far reaches of the North, had been visited by their huge lord who had dropped off a wagonload of wine barrels and two wagonloads of prostitutes and told his men, "Have fun! That's an order!" to resounding cheers. Ten minutes later, the party was in full swing with wine and women everywhere in sight and the soldiers singing fit to shake the walls down. Given that the Northmen had been in the thick of it from Harroway town to Twinoak, Bronn figured they deserved it.

He had seen a fair amount of action himself in the train of the Freys, enough to know that he never wanted to fight alongside them again. On at least two occasions, one of the brothers had hung another one out to dry, in order to try and get them out of their way in the succession to the Twins. By contrast, however, the Northmen had always jumped in to lend a hand and never once left one of their own hanging unsupported. Not to mention that the Northern lords seemed to pay more regularly than the Freys did. Bronn was only eight-and-ten, but he knew what he was worth and he didn't like people who welched on what they owed him. Which was why he planned to go over the next morning and ask if they needed someone who was handy with a sword.

Admittedly, they might not, what with the war being over and all. Apparently King Aerys had heard about the Tyrells getting beaten from one end of the Kingswood to the other and had a seizure that sent him tumbling off the Iron Throne to break his head open on one of the steps leading up to it. Lord Commander Hightower had subsequently thrown open the gates of King's Landing, the Dragonstone garrison had done the smart thing and handed over the Queen, the Prince, and the newborn Princess, and it was all hail King Aegon. The lords were all going off to Harrenhal to talk over how they were going to mind the store until the King could actually take the throne, but what mattered to Bronn was that the fighting was over, he would get paid off tomorrow, and by this time next evening he would either be wearing a Northern coat or be back on the road looking for someone to sell his sword to.

 _Hopefully, it'll be Northward bound for me,_ Bronn thought to himself as he watched a pair of skinpipers strike up a high-pitched, skirling tune that sent the Northmen into a leaping, spinning dance. _Although if I have to listen to that all the way up the Neck, I might cut off my own ears. Maybe I'll talk to someone other than an Umber man._

 **Author's Note:**

 **So this is basically the end of the Rebellion story arc. King Aerys is dead, Rhaegar has announced that he will plead guilty to kidnapping Lyanna and take the black, the Dragonstone garrison surrendered and handed Queen Rhaella, Prince Viserys, and the newborn Princess Daenerys over to the Lords Declarant, and it's "Long live King Aegon!"**

 **This is also the end of updates for a while, at least until I work out a plausible story arc for the next generation. Given the pressures of RL and the complexity of the story (and, to be fair, my own mild OCD when it comes to making a decent story) this will probably take some time. Your patience is appreciated, and I will recommence the story thread as time and inspiration allow.**

 **Cheers, all!**


	15. Chapter 15

. . . The challenges facing the Great Council of 284 were threefold. Firstly, there was the matter of the succession. This was the challenge most easily disposed of; with Aerys dead and Rhaegar having announced that he would plead guilty to the charge of kidnap, abdicate his place in the succession, and join the Night's Watch, Aegon the Sixth was the legitimate heir. What was slightly more contentious was the status of Prince Viserys and the newborn Princess Daenerys. The Tyrells argued that Viserys at least should remain in the succession until Aegon had an heir of his body, a position which was supported by the Lannisters. The Lords Declarant, on the other hand, were unwilling to let Viserys remain in the succession; Aegon's Dornish blood might possibly prevent him from contracting the Targaryen madness, but there was not even that possibility with Viserys, or Daenerys for that matter. Further complicating the matter was the Martell's argument that Aegon already had an heir in his sister Rhaenys. Eventually, it was agreed that Viserys would remain Aegon's heir until Aegon attained his majority, but that when Rhaenys wed, any children she might have would come before Viserys in the succession.

Secondly, there was the question of the Regency. Tywin Lannister put forward his name as a neutral candidate, but the Lords Declarant refused; they would only trust one of their own as Regent. The Tyrells joined with the Lannisters in opposition to this; they feared that they would be shut out of the political process at court if it was dominated by the Lords Declarant. Eventually it was agreed that there would be a council of seven Regents presided over by the Hand, who would rule in King Aegon's name until his sixteenth name day. The Lords Declarant proved immovable from the position that one of them should be Hand, and Lord Jon Arryn was duly named so. The seven regents eventually named were Stannis Baratheon for the Stormlands, Oberyn Martell for Dorne, Randyll Tarly for the Reach, Kevan Lannister for the Westerlands, Jason Mallister for the Riverlands, Eddard Stark for the North, and Rodrik Harlaw for the Iron Islands. The Lannisters and Tyrells were reportedly unhappy about being so outweighed at court, but they nonetheless acquiesced, especially after Rodrik Harlaw made known to them that, while he would serve the interests of the Iron Islands first and foremost, he believed that the interests of the Islands were largely the interests of the Westerlands and the Reach.

The third, and most contentious question, was the charter of rights and liberties that had been a central plank of the Lords Declarant's platform. Everyone agreed that such a charter was a fine idea in principle, but exactly what rights and liberties should be set down in the charter as inviolate was more open to dispute. The clause establishing the right of lords, knights, and freemen to be secure in life, liberty, and property except by due process of law was easily adopted, as was the clause stating that the king and the royal family were bound by the charter and the "other laws, customs and usages of the several Kingdoms" and a clause specifically forbidding slavery in Westeros, but other clauses were hotly debated. A clause guaranteeing freedom of faith and worship and specifically forbidding conversion under duress was passed easily enough due to a momentary coalition between the North, the Iron Islands, Dorne, and the Blackwoods, but clauses allowing for the wider taxation of ecclesiastical properties and the dissolution of septries and motherhouses that fell below a certain level of productivity and the sequestration of their properties and other assets were dropped after the High Septon spearheaded an impassioned defense of the rights of the Faith. A clause guaranteeing the right of foreign merchants to enter and exit the Realm freely was opposed by the Lannisters, who feared the influence of Essosi banking houses on Westerosi currency, as well as many of the more provincial and chauvinistic nobility, but it was eventually adopted after strong representations by the Iron Bank of Braavos were made under the aegis of the Manderlys, the Graftons, the Arryns of Gulltown, and a delegation of merchants from King's Landing. The most fiercely contested clauses, however, were those specifically restricting the powers of the Crown, especially those forbidding bills of attainder and warrantless arrests and seizures, as well as a clause which reserved the right to declare war to the Great Council. On one occasion, Lord Mace Tyrell, who had appointed himself as "King's Advocate", threatened to walk out of the Great Council and take the Reach with him, but he was talked down from his position by Tywin Lannister, who not only publicly reminded him of the oath that all in attendance had sworn to abide by and enforce the resolutions of the Great Council, but also privately reminded him that he would serve the King much better with his words than with his swords, which lay blunted and broken in the Kingswood. Eventually, the clauses prohibiting bills of attainder and warrantless arrests and seizures were adopted, while the clause regarding the power to declare war was amended to requiring that the King "consult with his Small Council and his other Ministers and Officers, and obtain their consent" before declaring war . . .

. . . There were two stumbling blocks that almost derailed the Great Council. The first was the question of what status the Faith should have in the new order. The High Septon advanced the position that he should have a seat on the Small Council, arguing that "the High Septon is the spiritual head of the Seven Kingdoms as His Grace the King is the temporal head of the Seven Kingdoms." To this, Lord Balon Greyjoy famously replied by jumping to his feet and proclaiming, "Not my Kingdom, you skirt-wearing boy-lover!" The uproar was such that several attending lords had to be ejected from the chamber but the point Lord Greyjoy had made, however indelicate, was recognized as being valid; the Faith of the Seven had only a majority presence in Dorne, a minor and tenuous foothold in the North, and no presence at all in the Iron Islands. For the High Septon to hold a Small Council seat, these Kingdoms argued, would be to undermine the clause of the charter guaranteeing freedom of faith and worship. They were joined in their opposition by Tywin Lannister, who argued that the Faith had foresworn its right to political agency in the Seven Kingdoms when the Faith Militant disbanded. Eventually, a compromise was struck whereby the High Septon would appoint a representative to the Small Council who would act as the Faith's observer and advocate, but who would not be a voting member. In addition to which, when King Aegon reached his majority and was crowned, he would be so crowned "In the Sight of the Old Gods and the Light of the Seven" and would assume the title of "Defender of the Faiths". In addition to which, the High Septon was officially recognized as the ultimate and final authority regarding the doctrines of the Faith of the Seven.

The second stumbling block was that while it had been stipulated in the charter that the royal family and the King especially were bound by the laws of the Realm, exactly what those laws were was unclear. Although Jaehaerys I had established a unified code of law, the intervening two centuries had seen a great deal of variation and divergence in the observation and practice of those laws throughout the Kingdoms, largely due to the fact that the administration of the law was left in the hands of local authorities. This was further complicated by the fact that Dorne had retained its own body of law when it entered the Realm. In the end, it was decided to appoint a commission of maesters to review, revise, and unify the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, and to charge the Master of Laws with establishing a corps of judges that would oversee the administration of law and justice throughout the Seven Kingdoms . . .

\- _The Great Charter: The First Constitution of Westeros_ by Alexander Burr, published 1786 AC


	16. Chapter 16

**The Sea of Myrth, 295 AC**

Ser Wylis Manderly might be a belted knight, but that didn't stop him from being at least conversant with the realities of trade in the Narrow Sea. The part that most concerned the North, and therefore his House, was the northern trade triangle. From White Harbor, Northern captains carried timber, pitch, flax, wool, pelts, and ivory from Beyond-the-Wall to Braavos and Pentos, where the captains exchanged their cargos for the wares of all northwestern Essos, ranging from Lorathi whale oil and walrus tusks to Braavosi dyes and manufactures to Pentoshi spices, cheeses, and jewelry. From Essos, the captains turned west and crossed the Narrow Sea to King's Landing and Gulltown, there to buy anything the South might yield, but most especially grain. Winter was always coming, as the Starks said, and the key to surviving winter was food.

Although the northern trade triangle never netted less than sixty thousand gold dragons a year for House Manderly alone, it was dwarfed by the southern trade triangle, in which the olive oil, wine, peppers, and salt of Dorne were exchanged for Tyroshi helmets and pear brandy, Lyseni tapestries, perfumes, and dirks, Myrish lace, carpets, and lenses, and Stormlands and Crownlands timber, furs, wool, wheat, and flax. But the riches of the southern triangle, being so much greater, drew proportionately more attention from those who found thievery a more attractive lifestyle than trade. Which was why Ser Wylis was aboard the cog _Salt Shore Lass_ , now on the westbound leg of the triangle. Ned Stark and his Dornish wife had brokered a deal with the Martells that, in return for a share of the profits of the southern trade triangle, the North would provide marines for the Dornish merchant fleet, as well as ten galleys to provide a stopgap while the Dornish built a fleet of their own. The royal fleet patrolled the Narrow Sea well enough, but they couldn't be everywhere and in the Stepstones, everyone with a rusty dagger and a skiff fancied themselves a pirate king in the making. Fortunately, the first Dornish galleys had started rolling off the slipways last year, and the first generation of Dornish naval captains were proving to be a zealously aggressive breed, but it would still be at least a year before they were able to take up the slack. In the meantime, Northern ships and men would fill the gap.

 _Which might become literally true, depending on the next few minutes,_ Wylis thought dourly as he observed the galley pulling alongside them. He wasn't an expert on southron ships, but to his eye this one had the narrow forecastle and low deck rails common to Lyseni ships, although it wasn't flying Lyseni colors, or any colors for that matter. That didn't mean anything particular, only warships habitually flew ensigns, but it was an indication that this ship was operating independently. In the event that this was a pirate, Wylis had three other Manderly knights under his command, along with two squads of northern infantry. The ship's crew also had a shortsword apiece and would undoubtedly fight fiercely, but Wylis had no illusions about their level of training or native talent. Any fighting would turn on him and his men.

Next to him, Captain Fentyn, master of the _Salt Shore Lass_ , raised a speaking trumpet to his lips. "Ahoy!" he bellowed. "What ship are you and where headed?"

"We are the _Green Magister_ , twelve days out of Lys bound for King's Landing!" the captain of the galley bellowed back. "Who are you?"

" _Salt Shore Lass_ , two days out of Myr bound for Tyrosh!" Fentyn roared back. "What news from Lys?"

"Nothing extraordinary," came the reply. "All well in Myr?"

"It was when we left," Fentyn shouted. "We'd invite you aboard, but we have a schedule to meet! Fair seas and following winds to you!"

"And to you as well, my friend," the _Green Magister_ 's captain hollered back, waving his plumed hat in farewell. Bare moments later, the galley's oars picked up the tempo and the lighter ship sprang away, crossing the _Salt Shore Lass_ ' bow. Fentyn handed the speaking trumpet back to the sailor who'd handed it to him and turned to Wylis. "I'll tell you, Ser Knight, I didn't like the look of that one. They've gone a-roving in their time, or I'm an oyster with my head in the sand."

Wylis nodded. "Of a certainty, if they're headed for King's Landing, they're not going to make a profit, not the way they had the oars going." You couldn't fit much in the way of cargo on a galley, not when so much deck space was taken up by the rowers. And whatever profit you made would be almost literally eaten by the cost of feeding your rowers and the other crew. "Fortunately, they must have figured we were too tough a nut to crack," he continued, waving a hand at the other knights standing at the rail resplendent in their armor, and the grim-looking Northern infantry behind them with spears and poleaxes at order arms.

Captain Fentyn gestured assent. "Even so, ser knight, it would be best if we added one of your squads to the regular watch until we get to Blackwater Bay. The look of that one made my palms itch."

"I'll make the arrangements," Wylis said. "I'll also include this in my report to my lord my father and Ned Stark in King's Landing. If the pirates get uppity, we'll have to do something about them."

 **King's Landing, 296**

Eddard Stark frowned as he scanned the latest report from the commodore of the North's Stepstones squadron. In the past month alone, twenty ships had been attacked by pirates while plying the southern trade triangle and eight had been lost, a fivefold increase from last month. Either someone in the Stepstones had a bee in their britches at the thought of all that wealth sailing right under their noses, or someone was actively stirring up the hornet's nest. Probably the latter; one of Varys' little birds on Bloodstone had sent word that someone was offering a bounty for Westerosi ships and paying in Volantene honors. Whether whoever was offering the bounty was acting independently or on behalf of the Triarchs was open to debate.

And that wasn't all. Eddard laid the report back down on his desk and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Letters had come from Skagos and Storrold's Point claiming that Tyroshi and Volantene ships had come slave-raiding. Lord Magnar of Kingshouse had rather bluntly stated that the next slaver to visit Skagos would be hanged from the nearest weirwood by their own guts, while the commandant at New Hardhome requested naval patrols covering the Bay of Seals. All of which Eddard agreed with, but the royal fleet was already stretched thin covering the existing trade routes and the Northern fleet's position wasn't much better, what with fully a third of the fleet's galleys being committed to the Stepstones squadron. Moreover, if the slavers were operating with official sanction, then their actions constituted an act of war. Eddard didn't think that the Tyroshi would try and provoke a war with the Seven Kingdoms, but the Volantene tigers might think it worth the risk, being so far removed from Westerosi shores.

He glanced out the window at the angle of the sun. It was too late in the day to try and meet with Stannis and Oberyn, but the sennightly council meeting was tomorrow and he would bring up the issue of the slave raids and the increased pirate activity. Stannis and Oberyn would probably back him, the southern trade triangle brought tens of thousands of gold dragons a year to Storm's End and Sunspear, but the trick would be convincing the rest of the Council to take it seriously. Septon Corwyn would be especially difficult to win over; the Faith's representative was no friend of the North.

Eddard shook his head and rose from his desk. Ashara would be calling him to dinner in an hour and he needed to clear his head. A half-hour or so working the pell would clear his head nicely.

 **Bloodstone, 297 AC**

Sergeant Addam Woodman, late forester in the Rainwood for Lord Mertyns of Mistwood and now a sergeant in the Royal Corps of Guides, was lying flat on his belly under a stand of wild boxwood on Bloodstone, cold, wet near through, and armed only with a dirk. This last might be easily considered suicidal, as he was a royal soldier on the largest island of the Stepstones, each of which was a notorious haven for pirates, corsairs, and other freebooters, but his mission wasn't to fight. His mission was to infiltrate, observe, exfiltrate, and report.

He had every confidence in his ability to do so. How not, when he was a member of the finest regiment in the world, trained by none other than Colonel Ser James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier, the Iron Hand of the North? When you had been trained by the living incarnation of the Warrior, what terrors did mere pirates hold for you?

Pirates, of course, were one thing, but Volantene warships quite another, Addam reminded himself as he surveyed the scene before him. Hangman's Cove, on the southeastern end of the island, was full of ships of various types, but the trio of Volantene dromonds in the middle of the cove stood out like lions among wildcats. The small, collapsible Myrish far-eye Addam had wasn't quite powerful enough to pick out faces at this distance, not that he would have known any of the Volantenes from Bran the Builder, but he could make out a tall man wearing gilded armor under a Volantene banner presenting a trio of chests to a silver-haired man wearing a wine-colored tunic with great ceremony. At the silver-haired man's gesture, the chests were opened to reveal the undeniable gleam of gold, to cheers that Addam could hear even at several hundred yards. His hands shook with mingled fury and triumph for a brief second before he stilled them with a conscious effort. Fury, that the rumors of Volantis paying a bounty to pirates attacking Westerosi ships were true; triumph, that he had proof. As an underofficer in the Army of Westeros, and especially in the Army's reconnaissance and special operations regiment, his report of something occurring was legally admissible evidence that whatever-it-was had, in fact, happened. Colonel Barnes, the Council of Regents, even the King would hear of this. And fleets would sail, armies would march, and cities would burn before this was answered.

Addam collapsed his Myrish far-eye, slipped it back into his sleeve pocket, and ever so slowly began to creep back out from under the boxwood. He wouldn't need to worry about the sentry in this area, not after stabbing him through the kidney and cutting his throat with a hand over his mouth to stifle any noise, but cautious movement during this sort of exercise had been drummed into his bone marrow by the finest soldier in the world.

 **Author note: Let the games begin! So the premise for this story arc is more or less as follows. With Gulltown not being taken by storm and King's Landing not being sacked, with all the destruction and loss of life such events entail, Westeros is much more economically assertive in the Narrow Sea through the 280s and 290s. For those of you who might think that Westeros doesn't have the manufacturing base or supply of finished goods to compete in Essosi markets, I would point your attention to the fact that the "big three" exports from the North to Braavos come under the heading of naval stores (timber and pitch for ship hulls, flax for sails). When reviewing the map of Planetos I'm using for this story (** **/** **) one thing I noticed is that Braavos has a distinct lack of large forests in its hinterland. Not surprising, given the amount of shipbuilding Braavos must undertake in a given year, but nonetheless troublesome if they want to maintain their naval and mercantile edge. And as the North becomes steadily richer, they can transition from shipping timber logs to milled planks by constructing sawmills along the White Knife, and plan to upgrade to building prefabricated parts for the Braavosi Arsenal. In the southern Narrow Sea, it's more or less the same thing with the Stormlands primarily exporting naval stores to Dorne and the Three Daughters.**

 **Needless to say, growing wealth means growing attention from people with weapons and a desire to increase their cash flow. Doubly so when the new kid on the block is vehemently opposed to slavery (it's one of the few things** ** _everyone_** **on the Council of Regents agrees on) and aligns with an established power who is aggressively anti-slavery. The Three Daughters aren't keen to rough up their new trading partners (why fight someone when it's more profitable and more fun to rip them off?) but Volantis, being outside the trade triangles of the Narrow Sea, has no such qualms. They see a new and evidently energetic player in the Great Game of Essosi politics aligning with Braavos, their diametric opposite, and they smell trouble. If Braavos can significantly interdict the slave trade between Volantis and Slaver's Bay, then Volantis can kiss their economy good bye, and being able to base a naval squadron in Dorne would be significantly helpful to such an effort (it's still a long stretch, especially for galleys, but better than sailing all the way from Braavos). In fine, it's in Volantis's best interests to neutralize or at least contain Westeros's expansion into the Narrow Sea, but the distances argue against direct military action. Fortunately for Volantis, the Stepstones are full of pirates who, while they don't like Volantis any more than anyone else, are not fundamentally opposed to being paid good gold for every Westerosi merchantman they capture.**

 **Naturally, Westeros can't let that go unanswered, so the Dornish start building a fleet, the stormlords start patrolling more aggressively, the royal fleet does it's best to provide escorts and anti-piracy patrols in the southern Narrow Sea, and the North sends a third of their fleet to lend a hand in return for a share of the profits. By the late 290s, the situation has gotten to the point where the Council of Regents is contemplating more drastic military action, but with Aegon due to attain his majority in 298, they restrict themselves to building up the fleets and conducting strategic reconnaissance, the latter effort employing the newest royal military arm, the Royal Corps of Guides. After the successful debut of the Pathfinder Company in the Rebellion, such special forces are all the rage in the Westerosi military establishments and Jon Arryn, as a ploy to curry favor with a king who will soon be king in right as well as in name, arranged for the Starks to loan the services of Colonel Ser James Buchanan Barnes, alias the Winter Soldier, as advisor and trainer (what, you thought that Bucky would be an integral factor of the Rebellion's success and not be suitably rewarded? Jon Arryn knighted him after the Kingswood, and when the Pathfinder Company became the Reconnaissance Regiment, he was promoted to a rank commensurate with regimental command).**

 **To summarize, Westeros is pushing into the Narrow Sea trade circles and aligning with Braavos, Volantis is getting nervous, the Stepstones pirates are being employed as Volantene auxiliaries, and the king of Westeros is about to assume his throne in right. Sit back, relax, and fire up the popcorn maker, boys and girls (and nonbinaries), it's gonna be a bumpy ride!**


	17. Chapter 17

Aegon, the Sixth of his Name of House Targaryen, In the Sight of the Old Gods and the Light of the Seven, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Defender of the Faiths, strode confidently into the Small Council chamber. Never mind that his innards were dancing a gavotte at double the regular tempo, he kept his steps to a measured tread, his back straight, and his chin up. His mother had drilled into him that the most important thing a king could have was self-control. _Let others storm and rage, my son. You must let it roll off of you like water off a rock._ Self-control in thought, in word, and in deed; all else was based off this foundation.

Before him, his Council of Regents stood around the table, heads bowed in salute. Old Jon Arryn, with his lined face and iron-gray hair exuding dignified nobility like body heat. Randyll Tarly, his short beard bristling and his posture pikestaff-straight. Oberyn Martell, his black eyes flickering with pride as they regarded his nephew. Kevan Lannister, blandly unassuming as ever. Eddard Stark, his stony grey eyes unreadable. Stannis Baratheon, whose tight, hollow-cheeked face gave him an almost skeletal appearance. Blocky Rodrik Harlaw, his eyes reflective. And Jason Mallister, lean, handsome, and no less fierce-eyed for looking upon his king.

Aegon had grown up around these men. Oberyn, of course, had been closest to him, being his uncle, but Arryn had taught him etiquette and politics, while Baratheon taught him law. Stark and Tarly had overseen his martial training, while Mallister taught him how to ride and hunt. Harlaw had taught him to single-hand a skiff and the basics of sailing a larger vessel. And while Lannister had not quite succeeded in teaching him the art of high finance, he had at least drilled the basic precepts of banking into his head. Aside from his family and Septon Corwyn, who had been Aegon's confessor as well as the Faith's representative on the Council, these men had played the greatest part in molding him. Aegon knew that if he wanted to rule the Seven Kingdoms, he would first have to rule these men.

He walked over to the chair at the head of the council table and seated himself, Lord Commander Hightower standing at his right shoulder. "Be seated, my lords," he said softly, provoking a smooth flurry of motion as they obeyed. He kept his arms flat on the arms of the chair, his back straight, and his face carefully emotionless. _I must be as rock, unbending and immovable._ "We wish to begin," he said, deliberately employing the majestic plural, "by thanking you for your many years of devoted service. We, House Targaryen, and the Realm are indebted to the loyalty and skill with which you have overseen our realm during our minority. However," he continued, injecting a note of sternness into his voice, "we are of a mind to name our own councilors, whose names we have already decided upon. Our choices are not meant to reflect upon your characters or the service you have done us; they reflect only our pleasure to name our own advisors." He turned his gaze to Jon Arryn. "My Lord Arryn, your honor and the skill with which you have served as our Hand during our minority has become proverbial. We would have you remain in that office, while your good health endures."

Jon Arryn bowed gravely from his seat. "As you have requested, so do I swear my service and my counsel, Your Grace," he said formally.

 _One for the former rebels,_ Aegon thought. The Arryn-Tully-Stark-Baratheon axis, supported by the Martells, had put him on the throne, but they had not originally rebelled to crown him king. Aegon did not forget that the rebels had declared for him out of self-serving expediency. He turned to hard-eyed Randyll Tarly. "My Lord Tarly, we have often seen and heard of your unswerving advocacy of us and our rights, and your work in extending the reach of our judiciary has been exemplary. Accordingly, we would name you our Master of Laws."

Randyll Tarly rose to his feet to clap his fist to his breast and bow deeply from the waist. "I and mine are at your service, Your Grace," he proclaimed. "Now and forever."

 _That should serve as a start to keep the Reach in my camp._ Aside from the Crownlands, the Reach had been the only one of the Kingdoms to fight for House Targaryen, even if at that point they were technically in rebellion against the rightful king, between Aerys's madness and Rhaegar's crimes. _Loyalty is loyalty, and hard to come by,_ Aegon reminded himself. The Reachmen had died by the tens of thousands for the sake of loyalty to House Targaryen; even today, despite the efforts of the Silent Sisters, skeletons were found in the Kingswood wearing ragged fragments that had once been surcoats emblazoned with the heraldry of the Reach. He turned to Oberyn Martell. "Prince Oberyn, we are well aware of the bond of blood you share with us, as we aware of the good service that you have done us. However, we are displeased that you have continued to live in sin with a paramour, thus making mock of the sacrament of marriage. Therefore, we dismiss you from our court and our capital and pray you convey our good wishes to our uncle Prince Doran, who we understand is in sore need of them in his ill health."

Oberyn's face betrayed shock for a long heartbeat before he mastered himself and inclined his head. "As Your Grace commands," he said simply.

 _That will keep the Faith happy, as well as demonstrate my intent to be my own master._ The High Septon had many complaints about the current court, but they mostly boiled down to the presence of two people. Ser Eddard Stark was, by all accounts, honorable, valiant, scrupulous, devout, and a good and loving husband and father; the problem was that he was a devout worshipper of the Old Gods, the Gods of forest and mountain and plain and sea, which to the High Septon made him a barbarian one step away from committing blood sacrifice. There were also those who looked askance at the age of his eldest son Artos, especially in comparison to the length of Ser Eddard's marriage to Ashara Dayne. About Artos's potential bastardy, Aegon cared little; he and Artos had grown up together and any irregularity could be easily disposed of. The matter of Ser Eddard's paganism was more troubling, but Aegon was minded to overlook it so long as he remained a loyal and able servant of the Crown and Realm. And if the High Septon hated Ser Eddard, he loathed Prince Oberyn; for his licentiousness, for his lax and casual attitude towards the Faith, and especially for his perpetual mockery of the High Septon. Dismissing Oberyn from Court would throw the High Septon a bone and demonstrate that he did not need to rely on his mother's family to be secure in his reign. He turned to gaunt Stannis Baratheon. "My Lord Baratheon. We have heard much of your work in expanding our fleet, and the part you have played in safeguarding our commerce. We are loath to part you from the work you have so ably accomplished, and so we would name you our Master of Ships."

The middle Baratheon brother rose and bowed. "I accept your offer, Your Grace, and pledge myself to your service."

 _Another for the rebels, but potentially one for me, as well._ The Baratheons were indispensable to the rebel axis, what with Lord Robert being Jon Arryn's foster son and old Lord Stark's goodson, and Stannis being such close friends with Oberyn, despite their being about as similar as water and oil. But, Stannis was also married to Mace Tyrell's sister, which might make him susceptible to being pressured into the loyalist bloc. That would be something for Mace, or more likely Olenna, to work on. He turned to plain-faced Kevan Lannister. "My Lord Lannister. We know of no man more astute in finance and more loyal to the Crown than you, and we know but few of greater honesty, although those are all septons and so useless to us." The jest provoked a wave of laughter that made Aegon's stomach clench; it hadn't been strictly blasphemous, but it skirted too close for his liking. Ser Eddard, he noted, did not laugh. "We would name you our Master of Coin, if your brother can continue to loan us his right arm."

Kevan Lannister rose and bent the knee. "My service is yours, Your Grace," he said simply.

 _One to watch, that one._ Kevan might be the dullest of the Lannister brothers, but his unassuming face and even-keeled manner belied a keen and able mind. And although it might be true what some wits said, that he had never had a thought his brother Tywin did not have first, that made him all the more dangerous; there were few that Tywin trusted enough to allow them such a long leash as he gave Kevan. He turned to stone-eyed Eddard Stark. "Ser Eddard Stark. We regret that we have no position on our Small Council open to you, as we are minded to retain Lord Varys as Master of Whispers and our Kingsguard already has a Lord Commander. However, the present situation in the Stepstones brings to our mind that we can ill afford to discard one of the best leaders of men in Westeros. Consequently, we are minded to name you our Lord Marshal, with authority over all armies raised in our name for our service and second only to ourselves and our Hand. What say you?"

Eddard Stark bowed from his seat. "You have my sword, Your Grace, and the swords of the North as well."

 _Also one to watch._ Ser Eddard Stark was aptly named "the Quiet Wolf"; if anyone had ever heard him raise his voice above conversational tones outside of the drill square, they kept it to themselves, and he seemed content to back Jon Arryn and the other rebels, for the most part. That being said, his wife was one of the three or four most well-connected individuals in King's Landing and had no compunctions about leveraging those connections on her husband's behalf. And outside the council chamber, even Randyll Tarly admitted that he had never seen a finer body of men than the company of Northern infantry that had accompanied Ser Eddard to King's Landing. The situation in the Stepstones would likely require very good soldiers under a deft hand, and despite Tywin Lannister's protestations there were no finer soldiers in Westeros than the Army of the North. He turned to Jason Mallister and Rodrik Harlaw. "My Lords Mallister and Harlaw. We regret that we will no longer require your services, but we pray you remain in our court and our capital as your liege-lords' agents and our advisors for the time being. We would not have it said that we neglect any part of our Realm."

The two lords bowed acceptance. The Riverlands were integral to the rebel axis, providing them with a land bridge that connected all their realms as well as providing the marital bonds that were the mortar of alliances. As such, it was vital to keep them sweet and their borders guaranteed, as an attack on the Riverlands would almost certainly lead to another general conflagration without some very fast and very tricky political footwork. And keeping the Iron Islands at least quiescent was vital to the peace of the Realm; Balon Greyjoy made no secret of his desire to return to the Old Way and only Rodrik Harlaw's inventiveness at inducing the reaver captains to raid foreign waters had kept the lid on the Ironborn's aggressive tendencies. Hopefully the Stepstones would provide a more constructive outlet for the Ironborn's proclivities.

"The formal ceremonies of investiture will take place next week, after our coronation," Aegon continued. "We shall hold our first Small Council meeting two days afterward. In the meantime, we are sure that you have much business to attend to preparing the city for our coronation. Accordingly, we shall withdraw and let you set hands to task. If any irreconcilable differences arise, we pray you bring them to our attention." He stood, provoking a flurry of motion as the lords followed suit. "We bid you good day, my lords."

 **Author Note: And so passes the first formal act of Aegon the Sixth. For timeline purposes, it is the year 298 AC, the day before Aegon's sixteenth birthday, when he officially assumes the throne in his own right. The actual coronation will not take place for another week to allow people to travel to King's Landing, but this is the last meeting of the Council of Regents before they dissolve and reform as Aegon's Small Council.**

 **As for Aegon's political thinking, that takes some explaining, so bear with me. The court is, at this point, split into three main factions.**

 **1.** **The former rebels (the Stark-Tully-Arryn-Baratheon axis), also known at court as the Councilists. This faction acknowledges the desirability of a strong executive (they** ** _are_** **the strong executive, on their own lands) but they are leery of a strong executive they can't control. They're the faction that pushed the hardest for those clauses of the Great Charter that limited the royal prerogative. The Martell's are an adjunct of this faction, but somewhat loosely; the Martells agree on the need to limit the royal prerogative, but they are leery of too greatly limiting the prerogative of King Aegon, the Sixth of his Name, their nephew. This has led to some Teeth-Clenched Teamwork between the Martells and the second faction at court.**

 **2.** **The former loyalists (the Tyrells and the other Reach lords, headed by Randyll Tarly), also known at court as the Royalists. This faction, in opposition to the former rebels, has championed the rights of the monarchy at every turn, both at the Great Council of 284 and later. This is due to both personal inclination and also to their perceived need to ingratiate themselves to King Aegon; by the time they took the field in earnest, they were technically in rebellion against him, after all. They are substantially outweighed by the Councilists both on the Council of Regents and in the court at large, which drives them to rely on the support of the third faction.**

 **3.** **The neutrals (the Lannisters, the Greyjoys, and their subordinate houses). These are the ones who sat out the Rebellion of the Lords Declarant, and so do not particularly have an axe to grind either way. The Lannisters like the idea of a limited executive, but they don't like to say so in public (might give their subordinate Houses in the Westerlands ideas). The Greyjoys also like the idea of a limited executive (lets them get on with their national pastime of raiding the neighbors) but Rodrik Harlaw at least is smart enough to realize that the prosperity of the Iron Islands depends largely on their avoiding conflict with the Westerlands and the Reach. Consequently, the Greyjoys and the Lannisters have to this point largely aligned with the Reach in practice if not in theory.**

 **This is complicated by the fact that the Faith is trying to flex its political muscle. The High Septon and the Most Devout were not best pleased by the clause of the Great Charter guaranteeing freedom of faith and worship, so they've been leaning on Septon Corwyn, their representative on the Council of Regents, to advance the Faith's interests as much as he can. Septon Corwyn has had the most success finding willing listeners among the Royalists, but he has had some success among the Valemen and the Westerlanders as well.**

 **Aegon's political calculus is that the balance of power among these factions has to be maintained. Consequently, he made Jon Arryn, the head of the Councilists, his Hand, while giving the two next-most-powerful positions to a Royalist and a Royalist-leaning neutral. He made Stannis Baratheon master of ships and Eddard Stark Lord Marshal both to further keep the Councilists on side and because they are the best men for the jobs. Varys is still Master of Whispers (Aegon has known since childhood that Varys serves the Realm before the Throne and is alright with that; to his mind, the good of the Realm is synonymous with the good of the Throne), and Pycelle (who Aegon believes but does not know to be a Lannister tool) is still Grand Maester, so that's the other two Small Council positions filled. In order to keep the Faith quiescent about having a pagan in command of the Royal Army, and, coincidentally, to demonstrate that he doesn't need to lean on his Dornish family, he sends Oberyn home in mild disgrace. As for the Kingsguard, the two positions left empty by the deaths of Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent have been filled with Reachmen.**

 **So much for the basic rundown of King's Landing politics; in the next episode or two, we shall see the coronation, maybe a little politicking, and the shadow war in the Stepstones will heat up.**


	18. Chapter 18

King's Landing was crowded at the best of times. The normal population was somewhere around five hundred thousand people, although an accurate census had never been carried out, and it seemed like all of them were crowded along the Street of Dragons that ran from the Red Keep to the Great Square. Ser Eddard Stark knew intellectually that this wasn't the case, that the poor of Flea Bottom were being kept in their labyrinthine alleys and noisome tenements by patrols of gold cloaks and the majority of the crowd were lords and knights from all over Westeros come to see their king be crowned, but the sheer numbers of _people_ still made his head spin, even after sixteen years in the City.

The Street of Dragons was lined on each side with double columns of soldiery, the outside line to hold back the crowd and the inside line presenting arms as the royal party passed by. The first several blocks were held by the garrison of the Red Keep, Crownlanders and men of the Narrow Sea Houses for the most part, although most of the officers were dragonseeds from Dragonstone. These gave way to gold cloaks from the Gate of the Gods, usually considered the elite of the gold cloaks, though not by those gold cloaks that regularly patrolled Flea Bottom, who considered the Gate of the Gods garrison to be work-shy parade soldiers. They certainly looked the part, with their mail polished to an eye-hurting gleam and their cloaks meticulously brushed, but their spear hafts and sword hilts showed plenty of wear nonetheless. Further down the street, the duty was held by the first of the two new regiments raised for royal service, the Royal Marines. These were men trained to fight both on shipboard and on a hostile shore, made necessary by the number of pirates plaguing Westerosi trade. Technically, they were part of the royal fleet, but Eddard foresaw few problems with Stannis over jurisdiction. They were somewhat drabber than the gold cloaks in their brigandines and wide-brimmed kettle helmets, but their cutlasses and short glaives were well-made and well-maintained and they presented arms with a credible snap.

Beyond them was the royal regiment that Eddard had had the most influence on, the Royal Corps of Guides. Modeled on the Reconnaissance Regiment of the Army of the North, they had originally been huntsmen, foresters, herdsmen, and poor knight's sons who had been attracted by the idea of four silver stags a week plus bed and board and the idea of being the first in a new breed of soldier. Jon Arryn had prevailed on Father to make Colonel Barnes's services as a trainer available, and under the Winter Soldier's tutelage the disparate band of men from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms had been forged into a single blade, equally deadly individually and collectively. They couldn't go toe to toe with a charge of knights or Northern cavalry, but Eddard would lay good money on them against any comparable number of light horse or infantry in the world. Of a certainty, they looked the part of an elite unit, having donned a black surcoat with red piping over their jacks and open-faced sallet helms. As the royal procession passed by them to enter the Great Square they stamped to attention, the mounted companies dipping their lances in salute, and the Northern company's attached skinpipers struck up a march.

 _At least they're playing "Green Hills of the Riverlands" and not "Crossroad Races" or "Mace Tyrell, Have You Woken Yet?"_ Eddard thought ruefully. The part the North had played in the Rebellion had led to an upwelling of pride from the Neck to the New Gift, which was fed by the successes of the Northern squadron in the Stepstones. The general consensus of most of Westeros was that the Army of the North was the best army in the Seven Kingdoms and nowhere was that feeling stronger than in the North. Eddard tended to think of that as hubris, but, as Oberyn Martell was fond of reminding him, "It's not hubris if it's true."

From the Great Square it was a short ride up Visenya's Hill to the Great Sept of Baelor. There had never been any question of Aegon being crowned elsewhere; for one thing, Aegon was a follower of the Seven himself, as was eight or nine in ten of the population of Westeros. For another, all the Targaryen kings except for Maegor the Cruel had always been crowned by the High Septon, not being stupid enough to overtly challenge the primacy of the Faith. As the procession dismounted and walked into the Great Sept, Eddard paused before joining Ashara and his children to give the High Septon a short bow, which was answered with a curt nod. The High Septon was no friend of the North, but politeness cost nothing and helped to disjoint the High Septon's claims that he mocked the Faith.

Brandon had stayed in Winterfell as Father's declining health made it necessary for him to take up more and more of the reins of governance and Benjen was too busy running his holdfast and raising two children more or less by himself since Jonelle had died in childbirth to make the trip south, so Eddard, Ashara, and their children were representing the Starks. Four pregnancies and sixteen years of work had made Ashara plumper than she had been and put grey threads in her dark hair and lines on her face, but she had been the other half of Eddard's soul for sixteen years and for him there was no other woman in the world. The proof of that could be seen in their children; Artos, with his violet eyes startling in his long face, Robb, who wore his dark hair tied back in a short horsetail, Rickon, his dark blue eyes solemn as only a twelve-year-old's could be, and Arya, looking only a little mutinous in her gown.

At the front of the Sept, Aegon had come to a halt before the altar and stood at attention, his back spear-shaft straight and his head held high. Eddard was of mixed opinion regarding Aegon. On the one hand, he had watched Aegon grow up from a babe in arms to become a fine young man, with all the qualities that made for a good king, and he had had a hand in instilling those qualities, or some of them. On the other hand, Eddard remembered how Aerys's madness and Rhaegar's foolishness had brought the Seven Kingdoms to civil war, and when all was said and done, Aegon was a Targaryen, with all that implied. Of a certainty, he seemed to have more than his share of pride. Time and careful watching would tell.

The High Septon stepped forward and turned his professionally benevolent gaze on Aegon. "Who comes before the Seven?" he demanded, his sonorous voice filling the Sept.

Lord Commander Hightower stepped forward, unbowed despite his iron-grey hair and the weight of his armor. "Aegon, the Sixth of his Name of House Targaryen, comes before the Seven," he proclaimed, carrying out his role as Aegon's champion and advocate.

"And why does he come before the Seven?" the High Septon asked.

"To be crowned King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Defender of the Faiths," answered the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

"Then kneel, Aegon of House Targaryen," said the High Septon. Aegon smoothly went to his knees, his hand steadying the pommel of his sword so that it didn't tangle in his legs. "By what right do you, Aegon of House Targaryen, claim the crown and throne?" the High Septon asked.

"By right of blood succession," Aegon answered, his voice calm, "in accordance with the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, being the trueborn heir of Aerys the Second of his Name."

"Do any here vouch for this?" asked the High Septon.

Grand Maester Pycelle stepped forward. "I vouch for it," he said, his reedy voice strong for once, "For I attended at his birth, and know him to be the lawful son of Rhaegar, eldest son and heir of King Aerys, by his lawful wife the Princess Elia Martell."

"So be it," the High Septon proclaimed. "We find this claim valid and mean to crown Aegon, the Sixth of his Name of House Targaryen, as King. If any here know any impediment to this, then speak now or hold your peace hereafter." A long moment of silence later, the High Septon turned his gaze back to Aegon. "Aegon of House Targaryen, is it your will to be crowned King?"

"It is," Aegon answered.

"Do you swear to govern the people of these Seven Kingdoms in accordance with the laws of the aforesaid Kingdoms, and to maintain the rights, freedoms, and privileges they have hitherto enjoyed?" the High Septon asked.

"I do so swear," Aegon answered.

"Do you swear to protect, uphold, and defend the laws, lands, and peoples of these Seven Kingdoms against all their enemies, both foreign and domestic?" the High Septon asked.

"I do so swear," Aegon answered.

"Do you swear to maintain and defend the faiths of your people, whatsoever they may be, and preserve the rights and privileges appertaining unto their clergy?" the High Septon asked, his blandly benevolent face momentarily souring.

"I do so swear," Aegon answered. Eddard gave a slight sigh of relief. That particular part of the coronation oath had been the most difficult to get the High Septon to accept. In the end, it had taken a not-so-subtle reminder to Aegon that fully one in four of the men who had bled and died to put him on the throne, along with the finest army in Westeros, followed the old gods before it had been accepted. _One more reason for the High Septon to hate me, but what else is new?_

The High Septon turned and took the simple gold circlet that had served three previous Targaryen kings as their crown from one of the altar boys and raised it over Aegon's head. "I crown thee, Aegon the Sixth of thy Name of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Defender of the Faiths" he proclaimed, lowering the crown onto Aegon's head. "Westeros, behold your king!" he shouted, raising his hands from King Aegon's head as every person in the Great Sept bent the knee.

The unified shouts of "Long live the King! Long live the King! Long live the King!" made the windows shudder and the rafters re-echo.


	19. Chapter 19

Viserys Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, stood in the Chamber of the Painted Table regarding the map of the Seven Kingdoms. _My kingdoms, mine by right of blood, but for those meddling Dornish bastards,_ he thought sourly, sipping his wine. The only reason Aegon had been crowned king was that the Dornish had traded their support for the Councillist's rebellion for their acceptance of Aegon's claim. _Rhaegar's crimes should have disinherited all his line and left the Iron Throne to me,_ Viserys brooded, _but the Councillists cared more for the spears of Dorne than the laws of the Realm, for all their sanctimonious rhetoric._ Given a few more years, he would no longer even be Aegon's heir. Rhaenys's betrothal to Edmure Tully was signed, sealed, and celebrated, and the two gave every appearance of being eager for the wedding next year. Given that Edmure already had at least one known bastard, it was good odds that the match would prove fertile and that would be the end of Viserys's ambitions. _And so the pure blood of the dragon is supplanted by the get of a sand-veined bitch and a fish-brained lout,_ Viserys thought savagely, his fingers tightening on his goblet as if on Rhaenys's neck, _Ye gods, that the line of the Conqueror should come to this._

His good-family hadn't proved much help either. Mylessa was from the Lannisport branch of the Lannisters, as high as the Councillists would allow him to marry, and that had been as far as his ambitions had been permitted to reach. Immediately after he married he had been packed off to Dragonstone "in order to take up his responsibilities as Prince of that place", as that double-tongued old bastard Jon Arryn had put it, and overnight his political circle had been reduced from the ocean of King's Landing to the millpond of Blackwater Bay. His attempts to establish his dominance over the houses which swore him allegiance had been derailed as well; when he had Lord Ardrian Celtigar thrown in the dungeons for lese-majeste, the royal fleet had turned up on his doorstep with three thousand Valemen and Riverlanders on board and a royal warrant for Celtigar's release on grounds that his arrest had been unlawful. Viserys gritted his teeth; Celtigar had mocked him in his own hall and that self-righteous shit Stannis Baratheon dared to lecture _him_ about the rule of law. Claw Isle hardly bothered to acknowledge Dragonstone's suzerainty these days, thanks to the Councillist's meddling. Kevan Lannister had sent him a raven saying that he had done his best to advocate for him on the Council of Regents, but Viserys knew that for the lie it was. If Kevan, and by extension Tywin, were truly his advocate, then they would have sent some of that army Tywin spent so much money on to help him claim his rights as Prince of Dragonstone, if not as heir to the Iron Throne. But Tywin had refused to send him so much as a company of foot and so Viserys hadn't communicated with his good-family in two years.

 _Fortunately, the Lannisters are not the only people with the means to back my claims,_ Viserys thought to himself as he turned to regard the map of Essos that hung on the wall. The Archon of Tyrosh gave him a handsome annuity for letting Tyroshi ships replenish on Dragonstone at reduced prices, as well as contacts with free companies in Essos that were of the best quality, such as the Windblown, the Second Sons, and even the Golden Company. In return for this generosity, all Viserys had to do was not ask questions if certain Tyroshi ships sailed north with empty holds and came back with living cargo. _That_ he made sure to keep well secret; the Great Charter's prescribed punishment for slavers was death not long delayed, a sentiment with which even the Greyjoys agreed. But even more attractive than the Tyroshi accommodation was the one he was contemplating with the Volantenes, who had sent him a letter which made coy hints of recognition as the legitimate king. Volantis was a long way from Westeros, but if the tigers won an election, then a great many things might be possible.

 _Until then, I must bide my time and wait my turn,_ Viserys thought blackly, swirling the wine in his goblet. It chafed at his soul to sit idly on this gods-forsaken rock and watch his half-breed cousins make free of _his_ kingdom, but he nursed that aggravation as a miser nursed his fortune. The gods knew it was all he had.

 **Author's note: So that's Viserys for you; angry about being passed over for his half-breed cousins, frustrated that his in-laws aren't giving him what he feels is the proper support, and willing to provide aid and comfort to slavers if it gives him gold and access to fighting men. The Tyroshi know that he's effectively in internal exile and aren't counting on him for anything serious, but Volantis is far enough away from Westeros that their view of Westerosi politics is somewhat garbled; they know he's not officially powerful, but a pure-blooded Valyrian with a royal title has to have** ** _some_** **pull. The elephants are currently in power in Volantis, so military adventurism is not on the table quite yet, but priming a potential pump never hurt anyone. The current triarchs are planning on playing a long game with regards to the Narrow Sea.**

 **Now, to respond to some reviews.**

 **Icelord10: As for the position of the Tyrells that you brought up, It's Complicated. The Tyrells, and the Reach with them, entered the Rebellion in support of Aerys, but with their defeat in the Kingswood and Aerys' subsequent death, they ended the war as rebels against King Aegon. There were no immediate repercussions aside from the Reach being reduced to a minor presence at court, but Mace Tyrell decided that they could spin their fighting for Aerys as fighting for the rights of the monarchy against those who would see it reduced. When Randyll Tarly was named to the Council of Regents, Mace instructed him to cooperate with the Councillist regents as he deemed in the best interests of the Reach except for matters of royal prerogative, on which he was not to give an inch under any circumstances. This is largely why Aegon retained Tarly on his Small Council; an advocate as fierce as Randyll Tarly is not something to discard lightly just because he technically rebelled against you.**

 **Naruto9tail: I think you're underestimating the influence that religion has in societies that haven't gone through a Renaissance-equivalent, much less an Enlightenment-equivalent. You know how today there are people who believe that God sends hurricanes as punishment for America's sins? Back in the medieval period, that sort of worldview was the norm. Westeros is a long way from separation of church and state. In addition to which, people's attitudes don't develop exclusively along the lines of the people they're around; sometimes they develop attitudes in reaction to the people around them. In Aegon's case, his distaste for Oberyn's recreational preferences, his exposure to devout practitioners of other faiths in the form of Ned Stark, Rodrik Harlaw and their households, and his mother's stories of his father and grandfather have all led him to develop a religiosity that goes somewhat beyond the usual bounds of conventional piety. He's not Baelor come again, in that he's properly wary of the Faith's agenda, but he's not Aegon the Fourth either, in that he generally abides by the Faith's moral strictures. He's also mortally afraid of developing some form of the Targaryen madness, not being a believer in "third time's the charm". To his mind, he needs all the help he can get in the metaphysical department and the Faith fits the bill perfectly. Expect that fear to come up again in future.**

 **Stay tuned, all!**


	20. Chapter 20

Bucky watched from the sidelines as the men and women of the Special Service Regiment ran the obstacle course he had devised. A two-mile run to be completed in eighteen minutes, a hundred-yard low crawl, an eight-foot wall, a four-foot wide ditch, and a fifteen-foot rope wall made for a difficult series of obstacles, but the free folk that made up the Special Service Regiment seemed to be having few difficulties.

The Special Service Regiment had grown out of the Stark's new policy regarding the wildlings. With the Night's Watch in no state to defend the Wall from a mass incursion, Lord Rickard had taken Bucky's advice that the best defense was a good offense and begun a series of raids beyond the Wall to either destroy the wildlings or reduce them to submission. Bucky and his Reconnaissance Regiment had been the cutting edge of those raids, sniffing out wilding villages in the Haunted Forest and the Frostfangs and running nomadic bands to earth. On one occasion five years ago, Bucky had led the Reconnaissance Regiment and four other battalions on a seaborne raid that terminated at the Thenn valley, where in a single day of battle the strength of the Thenns was broken.

What had happened next, however, had been a shock to everyone. Styr, Magnar of Thenn, had died at Bucky's hand in the battle, but the surviving lords and other notables, including Styr's heir Sigorn, had offered Bucky the bronze helm that had served as Styr's crown. Bucky had refused, of course, being neither crazy nor stupid, but when the Northern brigade went south again, the Thenns had come with them. Once Lord Commander Mormont had gotten over his shock, he had sent word to Lord Rickard to come to Castle Black and sort out his new vassals. Lord Rickard, also more than a little stunned at suddenly having several thousand new vassals, had settled them on the Stony Shore, on the terms that they could keep their customs and elect their own lords so long as they kept his peace and sent him their warriors when he called the banners. Nor were they the only ones, now. The Hornfoots had submitted a year after the Thenns, shortly followed by the Nightrunners. Tormund Giantsbane had submitted after challenging Bucky to a wrestling match and losing within twenty seconds. Mance Rayder had died fighting, but not before he secured Bucky's promise to conduct his wife Dalla and her sister Val south of the Wall. The Frozen Shore clans had fought and died with Mance, as had Harma Dogshead, Rattleshirt, Alfyn Crowkiller, and the Weeper, but Soren Shieldbreaker, Gavin the Trader, Devyn Sealskinner, and Morna had all survived the Battle of Antler River to submit to House Stark's overlordship. No one knew just how many former wildlings had settled on the Stony Shore, but there were at least twenty thousand and probably more like thirty or forty thousand by Bucky's estimate, making no distinction for age, sex, or condition. They were not wealthy even by the standards of the rest of the North, but they were nonetheless industrious, and Bucky's only problem with them was their attitude towards military discipline, which ran the gamut from amused derision to active hostility, even among those who had been on the receiving end of it at Antler River.

They were, however, willing to accept military discipline from the iron-armed demon that had defeated every champion they had sent against him and cut his way through the greatest host they had ever assembled to kill Mance Rayder. Hence the Special Service Regiment, which Bucky had named after a unit he dimly remembered crossing paths with during the war. Those of the free folk who would otherwise qualify for military service were sent to Bucky, who had the reputation to cow even the most recalcitrant ex-raider. He had built them around a kernel of three squads from the Reconnaissance Regiment and given them the same training he had given them, only more difficult. Much of it was gold to Casterly Rock, given that many of the free folk had lived by raid and ambush before coming south, but the discipline to work by squads and companies towards a long-term objective was new to them, and there Bucky had his work cut out for him. That being said, with Sigorn for second-in-command, Tormund for adjutant, and Mother Mole proclaiming you the Fist of the Gods, it became substantially easier.

Bucky only hoped they would be ready in time. The news from the Stepstones grew ever more concerning, and there were already rumblings that King Aegon would be launching a campaign to clear the islands of pirates. The Special Service Regiment would be ideal for the work, if they were ready for it. The last of the free folk scrambled down from the rope wall and Bucky trotted over to move them along to the archery range. One thing he insisted on was that every ten-person squad have at least four and preferably more archers, and he also insisted that those archers be trained to Guards standards. The archers he had were already good, but they had a ways to go to match the Winterfell Guards.


	21. Chapter 21

"Be seated, my lords," Aegon said as he took his seat at the head of the Small Council table. "We wish to begin today's business with the Stepstones. My lord Baratheon, Ser Eddard, Lord Varys, how stands the situation in those islands?"

"Dangerous, Your Grace," Stannis Baratheon said bluntly, unrolling a map of the southern Narrow Sea onto the table. "Normally the pirates fight each other as much as they prey on passing ships, but starting three years ago, we began to see a marked increase in pirate attacks on our shipping in and around the Stepstones. In the past year alone, one hundred and forty Westerosi merchantmen have been attacked in and around the Stepstones, and sixty-two of them were lost. My opposite numbers in Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh have all noted the increased pirate activity, but they have not reported suffering anywhere near the level of depredation we have endured."

Varys nodded. "My little birds around the Stepstones have been singing songs to me of men with Volantene accents offering a bounty of a thousand honors to any pirate who takes, sinks, or burns a Westerosi merchantman. My birds in Volantis are not yet so highly placed as to determine whether or not this is a deliberate policy of the Triarchs or simply adventurism by private citizens, but I believe Ser Eddard has more information on that front?" he said, raising an eyebrow at Ser Eddard, who nodded.

"Your Grace, three months ago, I dispatched patrols from the Royal Corps of Guides to scout the Stepstones and see if there was any truth to this rumor of bounties. One of them, Sergeant Woodman, saw with his own eyes a trio of Volantene dromonds in the middle of Hangman's Cove, and a man standing under a Volantene banner giving chests full of gold to a man who matches the description of Salladhor Saan, who is one of the most powerful pirates in the Narrow Sea. I have his report here, if anyone wishes to review it," he drew out a sheaf of papers surmounted with the eye and crossed lances crest of the Guides, but Aegon shook his head.

"This Woodman is a man of our service, and his report comes to us from your hands; we are satisfied as to its accuracy," Aegon said. "Grand Maester, Lord Tarly, you are our experts in matters of law. May we consider ourselves at war with Volantis?"

Grand Maester Pycelle shook his head. "Not in strictest law, Your Grace," he said heavily. "For a state of war to exist between us and Volantis, we must be attacked by ships or men under Volantene colors. The use of pirates does not fit that definition, as they are not Volantene forces."

"I fear I must agree with Pycelle, Your Grace," said Tarly, who looked like it physically pained him to say it. "Absent direct Volantene involvement in these attacks, we cannot legally declare a state of war. That being said," he raised a finger as if to forestall an outburst, although Aegon was quite sure he hadn't so much as twitched, "we are under no such restrictions as regarding the pirates, as they are _hostis humani generis_ , enemies-general of humankind. We are perfectly within our rights to take, interrogate, and kill any pirate we find anywhere in the world."

"Which is splendid, my lord, but leaves the problem unanswered," Aegon said evenly. "It matters not how many pirates we kill, even if we dye the seas red with their blood. They will still haunt the Stepstones and plague our trade for as long as Volantis provides them with gold to do so." He turned to Ser Eddard. "Ser Eddard, have any plans been made to assault the Stepstones and clean them out?"

"I have drawn up two, Your Grace, and I am sure that Stannis has drawn up at least one of his own," Ser Eddard said. "I can provide you with copies by tomorrow morning."

"Pray do so," Aegon replied. "That leaves only the Volantenes to attend to." He turned to Rodrik Harlaw. "My lord Harlaw, we trust you know of captains who would not be averse to reaving Volantene waters?"

Rodrik cocked an eyebrow. "Your Grace, there isn't a captain in the Isles who wouldn't leap at the chance to go reaving the Orange Shore and the mouth of the Rhoyne. They'd slaver at the mouth at the thought of it."

"Excellent," said Aegon. "Send word to the Isles that any captain who wishes to reave Volantene waters has my leave to do so without repercussion and my prayers for their success. I ask only that they take every opportunity to interdict the slave trade between Volantis and Slaver's Bay, and that they bring every slave they can carry here to King's Landing for emancipation. My lord Lannister, I leave it to you and Ser Rodrik to decide upon a suitable reward for every slave so liberated." Kevan Lannister acknowledged the command with a bow from his seat and Harlaw grinned fiercely.

"Give it four months, Your Grace, and there'll be a hundred longships off the Volantene coasts, all packed with reavers," he said, rubbing his hands. "By the Drowned God, I almost wish I were young again and could go with them." The other Small Council members looked askance at Rodrik but the old ironborn didn't seem to notice, his eyes gleaming at the thought of the richest reaving expedition since Dalton the Red Kraken. _A leopard can't change his spots, nor an ironborn change his ways_ , Aegon reflected. _Keep our home-grown pirates profitably employed hurting other people, old sea-dog, and I'll think well of you for it._

"In the meantime, Ser Eddard, Lord Stannis," he turned back to his Lord Marshal and Master of Ships, "Decide between you on a plan to invade and conquer the Stepstones by next sennight's meeting and present it to us then. And now, we believe, the next order of business is the expansion of our judiciary. Lord Tarly, where do we stand on that matter?"

"The circuit courts for the Reach have been established and are in operation, as are the circuit courts for the Crownlands, the Vale, the Westerlands, and the Stormlands," Tarly said with every evidence of satisfaction. "The circuit court of the Riverlands has been encountering some difficulties getting the local lords and landed knights to acknowledge its authority, but Lord Tully and Ser Edmure have been making efforts on our behalf. I am confident that the circuit court of the Riverlands will be fully established before the year is out."

"We charge you spare no effort, Lord Tarly," Aegon said firmly. "We would have it said that any citizen of our realm may have swift and certain justice, be they lord, knight, or peasant. How goes the establishment of the Dornish court?"

"The Dornish circuit court is running smoothly in all respects bar one, Your Grace," Tarly replied. "The harshness of the climate and the particularities of Dornish law make it difficult to find men from outside Dorne willing to serve there, and Your Grace has explicitly commanded that no man may be a judge, a bailiff, or a deputy in the kingdom he was born in."

"Which command we are not minded to rescind," Aegon said flatly. Getting the courts accepted and operating was difficult enough without facilitating corruption. At least most judges didn't have to ride with an escort of lancers and mounted archers from the Guides anymore. "My lord Lannister, make arrangements with Lord Tarly to offer increased pay to men who will serve in Dorne. Grand Maester, we pray you write to the Citadel requesting that they offer more classes on Dornish law and custom to men we send there for judicial training." Given that the Citadel was the center of Westerosi learning, royal judges perforce had to travel there to receive their training. Aegon had tried getting the maesters to set up a school of law in King's Landing, but they had so far proved immovable. "We recall as well that much the same difficulties existed in the establishment of the circuit courts of the North; let the same arrangements be made there as well." The North had cooperated in the establishment of the circuit courts, but the sheer distances involved and the occasional recalcitrance of the local lords made it almost as difficult a post as Dorne. Thankfully, Tywin Lannister had accepted their operation in the Westerlands and backed them up with his army. "Is there any other immediate business?" he asked.

"Just one matter, Your Grace," said Jon Arryn, his deep voice impeccably cultured, "that of your betrothal."

Aegon distinctly felt his heart skip a beat, but he nonetheless kept his face impassive. _Stone, I must be stone,_ he thought desperately. "Our betrothal, my lord?" he said, keeping his voice low in order to ensure its evenness. "We were unaware that we had on."

"That is rather the issue, Your Grace," said Jason Mallister. "You _haven't_ got one."

"Indeed," Varys commented dryly, his face studiously bland.

Aegon prided himself on his self-control, but he nonetheless feared that the churning in his innards that this line of inquiry had provoked was visible on his face. His mother and grandmother had tried to conceal the truth of their marriages from him, but other sources had been more forthcoming; he knew that his grandfather was a mad rapist and that his father had abandoned his mother over a prophecy he had found in some musty old tome. Above all things he feared the Targaryen madness, but especially as it pertained to how it would affect those closest to him. He was hardly a prude, one of the few gifts he had ever unreservedly thanked Uncle Oberyn for was the arrangements he had made with Madame Chataya for his sixteenth nameday, but he believed in his bone marrow in his duty to be the safeguard of the helpless, especially women. The idea that he might become a monster like his grandfather . . . he had lost count of the number of candles he had lit to the Seven for the mercy that would spare him _that_ before he turned thirteen. He had been unable to make Lord Commander Hightower swear to put him down if he ever went as mad as Aerys, but fortunately Ser Jaime Lannister had been more easily persuaded. He had even been completely serious in voice and face when he swore that oath, which was a rare occurrence for the sardonic knight.

"We are not minded to discuss the matter of our betrothal at his time," he said flatly, when he was sure he could control his voice. "For one thing, we have yet to receive any offers we deem worthy. For another, we do not wish to overshadow our sister's nuptials." That brought a round of bowed heads, to which Jon Arryn added a graceful gesture of assent. Aegon might be the king, and respected, but it was Rhaenys who held the true adoration of these men, many of whom considered her a sort of niece. Rodrik Harlaw, he knew, had carried her on his shoulders as a child, as had Kevan and Eddard. Even dour Randyll Tarly had been witnessed to smile in Rhaenys' presence, which Aegon would have thought impossible if he had not seen it himself. "In the months after our sister's wedding, perhaps, we will entertain offers for our own betrothal. Until then, we declare the matter closed. Any other business? No? Then we declare this meeting adjourned."


	22. Chapter 22

Edmure Tully sighed in relief as his squire relieved him of the last of his armor. It was no heavier than mail and offered significantly better protection against piercing weapons, but it was still sixty pounds of metal that he had been wearing since early morning when he led the first squadron of the Trident Guard out of the gates and onto the parade ground for a day of drill.

The Trident Guard was the Riverlands' answer to the tide of regimentation that was sweeping Westeros' armies. The Tully's didn't have the same sway over their bannermen that the Starks or the Lannisters did, to force a professional or semi-professional army on them, but they could lead by example in creating their own regiment, and then demonstrating its superiority in putting down the minor war that characterized the internal politics of the Riverlands. When the Blackwoods and the Brackens had rekindled their long-running feud after the Rebellion, Edmure's father had descended on them both, arrested Lord Tytos Blackwood and Lord Jonos Bracken, along with their heirs and principal officers, and imprisoned them for breach of the peace before forcing them to betroth their heirs to each other's daughters and swear eternal peace. Both Jonos and Tytos had initially balked, but the Council of Regents had affirmed Hoster's judgment, with Jon Arryn adding that the next time Bracken and Blackwood went to war with each other, they, Jonos and Tytos, would pay the forfeit of the peace with their lives. Fortunately, Hoster Blackwood and Barbara Bracken seemed to get along well enough, as did Hendry Bracken and Bethany Blackwood. Father had also insisted that the Bracken and Blackwood heirs serve in the same troop of the Trident Guard, where they would "learn to be civil to each other, at least." Hendry and Hoster, often called "Hos", were now squadron commanders, and had become tentative friends, if not exactly blood brothers.

They had been joined by the heirs of almost every house in the Riverlands. Hosteen Frey, recovered from the wound he sustained at Twinoak that had left him with a remarkable facial scar, was the third squadron commander, with Ronald Vance and Marq Piper as his troop commanders. Hos's troop commanders were Patrek Mallister and Ethan Mooton, while Hendry's troops were led by Lymond Goodbrook and Tristan Ryger. The fourth, fifth, and sixth squadrons were officered by other sons of the Houses, albeit most of the underofficers in all the squadrons were former hedge knights who had leaped at the chance of steady employment. It had been the first step in his father's plan to bring the river lords more firmly under his hand. "As the matter stands, my lords, we are the weakest of the Seven Kingdoms," he had said to the assembled lords in Riverrun. "We are weak not because we are poor, but because we are divided. These feuds, these petty rivalries of who owns which mill or which stretch of riverbank, they make us a laughingstock in the other kingdoms and easy prey for any who seek to build a greater realm. If we are to be strong, if we are to stand proud among the Seven Kingdoms, then we must stand united, under one banner! Let us forge our swords into a single blade and I fear neither gods nor men. Will you stand with me?"

That council had led to three major innovations. Firstly, a Council of Deputies had been set up, where each noble house of the Riverlands could send a deputy to advise his father and advocate for their House's interests, to be called every two years. Secondly, the Trident Guard had been expanded from their home base at Riverrun to garrisons at Pinkmaiden, Fairmarket, Stoney Sept, Harrenhal, and Maidenpool, where they served as road patrols, caravan escorts, bandit hunters, and peacekeepers in the market towns, supported by taxes levied on the lords and on the market towns and flying the blue trident on green that was the new banner of the unified Riverlands. Thirdly, Edmure had been given Lord Harroway's Town, rendered available by the dispossession of the Rootes for their support of the Mad King, with a mandate to build a holdfast and rule over the confluence of the three forks of the Trident in the king's name. Renamed Fort Justman, after the Justman kings who had ruled the Trident for three hundred years, it had become one of the most prosperous holds in the Riverlands, thanks to the modest tariff that was levied on merchant traffic going up the forks. Much of that went back to Riverrun, of course, Edmure was not Lord Paramount quite yet, but what remained after royal taxes and remittances back to Riverrun still amounted to a small fortune, largely thanks to the skills of Petyr Baelish, who served as Edmure's steward.

Father had not been best pleased when Edmure had given Petyr the job, but Edmure had managed to allay the old man's fears by promising to keep a wary eye on him, especially if Lysa ever came to visit. In addition, he made a habit of reviewing the books every month with the aid of the fort's maester, to make sure that Petyr didn't get up to anything devious with the money. So far, Petyr had remained honest, but Edmure would continue to watch him nevertheless. He could not afford to be careless, what with a royal betrothal hanging on his conduct.

His lips quirked as he remembered the day he had learned that he would be betrothed to Princess Rhaenys. He and Father had been in King's Landing for business, and Edmure had been introduced to King Aegon, who informed him that he was to be betrothed to his sister Rhaenys. The king had been barely twelve years old then, and Edmure a good eight inches taller and half again his weight, but when Aegon had told him that if he was not a good lord and a good knight then he would dissolve the betrothal, Edmure had been so struck by the young king's force of personality, and overcome with surprise that he would marry a princess, that all he could do was bow and mumble that he would do his best to please his grace. By Jason Mallister's report, Aegon had only become more commanding with age.

Nor was that the only thing to have improved with age, Edmure reflected as he glanced at the stack of letters on the side of his desk. He and Rhaenys had only met a few times, but they had had no trouble hitting it off, as Colonel Barnes had put it. Edmure knew that there were women more beautiful than Rhaenys, but very few of them had her intelligence or her spirit, and she was hardly plain, having her mother's fine-boned beauty. She was even a decent hand with a spear, thanks to her uncle Prince Oberyn, and had given him a hard-fought bout the one time they encountered each other in the training yard. And there was no question as to her enthusiasm for the betrothal, he thought, remembering a memorable bout of kissing in the godswood of the Red Keep. _Seven months,_ he thought to himself, pouring himself a cup of wine. _Seven months and kissing will be the least of what we do together, my princess, my love._

 **Author note: So that's what's been happening up north, along with the first course of action Aegon plans to take in the Narrow Sea and the situation in the Riverlands. A few explanations of my logic before moving on.**

 **Firstly, regarding the wildlings. Basically, Bucky convinced Rickard Stark that the best way to deal with the wildlings was to either beat them into submission or just pound them flat. Mance Rayder and the diehards fought to the death rather than submit, but some of the more moderate ones were smart enough to realize that they couldn't beat this iron-armed demon that the Starks had found, so the best thing to do was back the winning horse. The Northern Houses aren't terribly pleased, but they're willing to defer to Rickard's judgment so long as the free folk behave themselves. Given the free folk's antipathy for the sort of discipline it takes to hold a shieldwall in pitched combat, Bucky's turning them into the North's commando force, as opposed to the Reconnaissance Regiment's strategic and operational reconnaissance remit.**

 **Secondly, regarding the Small Council scene. They know that the Volantenes are behind the pirates' increased predilection to attack Westerosi merchants, but the fact that the Volantenes are using auxiliaries means they have no way of legally declaring war on them, and Aegon for one plans to be a very law-abiding king, given that Aerys and Rhaegar showed what happened to kings who didn't play by the rules. So the strategy is to engage in some proxy warfare of their own, while cleaning out the Stepstones. Also, as to Aegon's lack of betrothal, part of that is his reluctance to tie himself too closely to any of the factions at court, but the main motivator is his fear that he will inherit the Targaryen madness. For someone with Aegon's notions of** ** _noblesse oblige_** **, the thought of becoming a second Aerys the Mad is fundamentally repulsive, especially since it will fall hardest on his immediate family and the court, almost all of whom he has grown up with.**

 **Thirdly, the Riverlands. Basically, Hoster is taking the leverage he gained over his bannermen from the Rebellion and running as fast and as far as he can with it. He did have to concede an advisory council, but he made up for it with the acceptance of an expanded Trident Guard and his family taking control of Lord Harroway's Town, now Fort Justman, which allows for the Tully's to extend their reach into the heart of the Riverlands and strengthen their hold on the economic and military strength of their kingdom. The Trident Guard, by the way, is not just a military force, it's also a way of promoting solidarity among the river lords by creating a pan-Riverlands body where their sons can get to know and befriend each other. Live in someone's pocket for several months under discipline, working towards a common goal, and you can't help but become friends with that person; this I learned in AmeriCorps.**

 **Thank you all for reading, and stay tuned!**


	23. Chapter 23

Aegon sat as comfortably as he could on the Iron Throne. It was deliberately uncomfortable, but it was possible to sit more or less easily on it without cutting yourself, if you were careful. _Another lesson on the importance of self-control for kings,_ he mused. Being surrounded by the snares of factionalism as much as by the barbs of the throne, the safest, best way for the king was to hold himself aloof from faction and point alike, never moving too quickly in any one direction and so upsetting the balance. _Although my hand may be forced, if these three say what I think they will,_ he thought sourly, regarding the ambassadors from Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh who stood before the Throne. They had arrived four days ago, claiming urgent business with him that made no allowance for the usual ceremony. Fortunately, Jon Arryn had been able to delay them until Varys had made some inquiries, which the eunuch said confirmed his suspicions; the ambassadors were charged with preventing the planned expedition to the Stepstones. Varys had cautioned, however, that he had been unable to uncover the motivation behind this uncommon unity among the Three Daughters. Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh were habitual enemies, despite their experiment with alliance around the turn of the second century after the Conquest, so for all three of them to have set their faces against the Westerosi expedition like this had to have an external provocation. _One likely to have the skull and crown of Volantis for a sigil,_ Aegon thought balefully as the ambassadors straightened from their bows before wrenching his mind away from that line of thought. _Steady there, man. Don't jump to conclusions_.

"Be welcome in King's Landing, my lords," he said graciously, nodding at the ambassadors. "What brings you to our court?"

The Myrish ambassador, a dark-haired man with olive skin who reminded Aegon of his uncle Doran, was the first to speak. "We have come, Your Grace," he said in the sultry accent of his city, "to discuss the situation in the Stepstones."

Aegon cocked an eyebrow. "What is there to discuss, my lord?" he asked guilelessly. "The Stepstones are infested with pirates who are plaguing our commerce and we are taking an opportunity to burn them out like the vermin they are. _Quod erat demonstrandum,_ as our maesters say."

The next to speak was the Lysene ambassador. "But we have heard, Your Grace," he said in an accent that retained the flowing quality of the Lysene dialect of Valyrian, "that you plan to establish permanent garrisons in the islands, and incorporate them into your realm."

"And if so, what of it?" Aegon asked. "The Stepstones are _terra nullius_ , no-man's land, and therefore may be claimed by any kingdom strong enough to hold them. If you wish to review legal precedents, we are sure our Master of Laws, Lord Tarly, will be more than willing to furnish them."

"Your Grace, let us be reasonable," said the Lyseni. "No kingdom can hold the Stepstones, for no other kingdom will suffer them to. This has been conclusively proven for many centuries. Your own ancestor, Prince Daemon, only established dominion over those unhappy islands with great difficulty and the liberal use of dragonfire and never knew peace or security on his throne. Far be it from me to impugn Your Grace's abilities, but if an experienced commander like Daemon could not rule the Stepstones, how does Your Grace expect to?"

"By military discipline and a strong fleet," Aegon replied shortly, restraining his temper, "among other things. We certainly do not intend to abandon them, as Daemon did. Not while they may be used by pirates as hives from which to plague our people."

The Tyroshi ambassador, a broad-chested man with a streak of bright orange dye in his beard, spoke up. "I fear, Your Grace, that the question will not arise," he said, almost apologetically. "As you love the peace and the commerce you have with us, you must not invade the Stepstones with a view to annexing them."

Aegon clenched his jaw on his fury until the red tinge left the corners of his vision. "You are either very brave, or very foolish," he ground out into the shocked silence of his court. "As our ancestor said, 'Must is not a word to be used to princes.'" His Kingsguard, taking their cue from his tone, put hands to sword hilts, as did Ser Eddard Stark, who as Lord Marshal was the only other man allowed to wear his sword in the throne room.

The ambassadors looked at each other uneasily. "We can, of course, come to some mutually beneficial arrangement," the Myrish ambassador said tentatively.

"These are our terms," Aegon interrupted him. "Your cities will join us in our campaign to conquer the Stepstones. You will place your fleets under the command of our Master of Ships for the duration of the campaign, to be returned after we have declared an end to hostilities. Your cities will each undertake to pay one fourth of the costs of the campaign, to be tabulated by our Master of Coin. You will foreswear all claim to the Stepstones forever, and acknowledge our sovereignty over them. You will discontinue all tariffs and taxes on Westerosi goods that pass through your ports. And lastly, you will abolish slavery in your cities' domains forthwith, and offer your former slaves either the means to make a livelihood in your cities, free of charge, or safe passage to the Seven Kingdoms, likewise free of charge. Do you accept these terms?"

The ambassadors looked flabbergasted. "Your Grace," the Lyseni finally choked out, "these are not terms one offers to allies. They are terms one dictates to the conquered."

"That is as it will be, if you refuse them," Aegon snarled. "Doubtless you will need to consult with your masters: we give you leave to do so. Tell them further that they can accept these terms now, or after their cities have been sacked. Do not let us detain you." The ambassadors bowed hastily and quickly walked out, the Lyseni almost tripping over the hem of his cloak. Aegon waited until the doors of the throne room closed behind them before speaking again. "We declare this court to be adjourned. Lord Commander Hightower, clear the room, if you please, save for the Small Council and our other advisors." When the doors closed behind the last courtier out of the room, Aegon turned to his Small Council and his other advisors, namely, Lords Mallister and Harlaw, his mother Princess Elia, and his sister Princess Rhaenys. "My lords, we owe you an apology for making your tasks more difficult. It appears that instead of a simple expedition to conquer the Stepstones, we must undertake to defeat the Three Daughters as well. Ser Eddard, Lord Stannis, we assume you will need to change your current plans?"

Stannis nodded. "I will need to send ravens by tonight, Your Grace, in order to call the Iron Fleet, the Redwyne fleet, and the Lannister fleet in time for them to round Dorne," he said.

Eddard nodded as well. "With your permission, Your Grace, I will send ravens to the Wardens, ordering a partial mobilization. The Three Daughters are not military titans like Volantis, but we will not be able to defeat them with only the Royal Army and the Crownlands lords. Forbye, I would like to put the City Watch and the King's Landing Regiment on alert, in case the Three Daughters attempt to strike at the capital." The King's Landing Regiment was a militia regiment that had grown out of an attempt by the city's merchant guilds to replicate the Northern regimental system. When it had come to Ser Eddard's attention, he had immediately taken it in hand, using the company of Northern infantry that had followed him to King's Landing as a demonstration and training unit. The King's Landing Regiment was untried, but officers and men alike were conscientious about drill and certainly willing to fight like lions to defend their homes. The City Watch was also at its most efficient and best-trained state in years, thanks to having Ser Eddard, Randyll Tarly, and Stannis Baratheon looking over their shoulders. Between the King's Landing Regiment, the Watch, the Royal Fleet, the two royal regiments. the garrison of the Red Keep, and the retinues of the various notables who resided in the city, King's Landing was well defended.

"So ordered," Aegon commanded, turning to Jon Arryn. "My lord Hand, we charge you to lead an embassy to the Sealord of Braavos, offering a military alliance against any enemy. We give you full authority to speak with our voice and sign with our hand."

Jon Arryn bowed. "As Your Grace commands," he said simply.

Aegon turned to Varys. "My lord Varys, we charge you provide us with a full and complete picture of the Three Daughters' strength and any influence that Volantis may have upon this course of action they have taken," he said. "We charge you also to discern what goal the Three Daughters and Volantis seek to accomplish by this gambit."

Varys bowed low. "That which mortal effort can accomplish, my little birds shall, Your Grace," he said.

Aegon thrust aside the image of some of Varys' little birds dragging the Triarchs of Volantis into a dark room and beating the requested information out of them and turned to his sister. "Sister, I trust that you will not object if we push your wedding forward by several months? If it is to be war, I will have need of an heir."

Rhaenys' curtsey did not quite hide her smile. "By all means, Your Grace," she said happily. "I confess myself impatient with waiting."

"Hopefully not too impatient," Aegon said dryly, turning back to Ser Eddard. "Ser Eddard, send word to Ser Edmure that he is bidden to court, along with his squadron. We will have need of a trusty man to serve as Warden of the Blackwater in the event that we depart for the war." Jon Arryn and Randyll Tarly shot a glance at each other which Aegon ignored. "My lady mother, we leave the arrangements for our sister's wedding in your hands." Elia bowed with a smile. "We believe that covers everything, so we will leave to your work my lords. Lord Commander Hightower, Ser Jaime, attend me."

Aegon's advisors bowed as he rose from the throne and strode out of the throne room. He waited until he was in his chambers before falling into the chair behind his desk and pouring himself a cup of wine. "Well, sers, what think you?" he asked as he took a sip of the Arbor Gold.

"That the Three Daughters are being unwontedly forward," Hightower said, doffing his helm and running a gauntleted hand over his iron-grey hair. "They are certainly war-like for a set of traders and brothel-keepers, but they have never set all of Westeros at defiance before."

"That's not what I was asking you of, Lord Commander," Aegon said shortly, "although I concede the point."

"Then what were you asking us of, Your Grace?" asked Ser Jaime Lannister, stripping off his gauntlets and leaning against the wall.

" 'Must is not a word to be used to princes,' " Aegon said softly, "Maegor the Cruel first said that, when Grand Maester Gawen protested his seizing the throne. It was also a favored saying of Aegon the Fourth, especially when he was defied."

The two Kingsguards looked at each other. Aside from them, only Aegon's mother and sister knew of his fear of the Targaryen madness, and that only because they were the ones Aegon had approached with his request to be killed if he ever developed it.

"I would hesitate to find any significance in this, Your Grace," said Gerold Hightower eventually. "To be set at defiance by foreigners would be enough to anger any young man."

"In addition to which, Your Grace allowed them to leave the room alive," Jaime Lannister added. "If the stories are anything to go by, Maegor would have killed them on the spot. Aerys certainly would have." Hightower glowered at his younger colleague, causing him to bridle. "What?" he demanded. "You and I and the gods know it's true. The second that ridiculous man said 'must', it would have been 'Arrest him, my Kingsguard, and send for Rossart.' Gods know we saw it happen enough times, and made the arrests."

"And I am but one generation removed from that monster," Aegon said heavily, regarding his cup balefully. "And if anything, my father was worse. Aerys was mad, yes, but willful dereliction is worse than unreasoning savagery, to my mind."

"Your Grace, I have made some study of the Targaryen madness," Hightower said hastily, shooting a last glare at Lannister. "As far as I have been able to find, it manifested early, or not at all. Maegor was three, Aerion Brightflame six, and Aegon the Fourth ten when the madness first manifested itself. Given Your Grace's age, I think we may regard you as being out of danger."

"And even if you are not," said Jaime Lannister, "Your Grace knows the oath I have sworn. I will keep it, even if the gods came down and bade me not to."

"What oath?" Hightower said, looking between his colleague and his king owlishly.

"A private matter between myself and Ser Jaime, my Lord Commander," Aegon said, flashing Jaime a grateful smile, "and no concern of yours. Should it become operative, Ser Jaime will inform you of its nature." Hightower was clearly unhappy, but he bowed acquiescence nonetheless. Aegon tossed back the rest of his wine and stood. "I would take my daily practice at the pells, sers. Shall we?"

 **Author Note: So yeah, that happened. 'Must is not a word to be used to princes' was actually said by Elizabeth I of England, but I stole it because it fit the situation and the character.**

 **In the next mini-arc, expect to see the opening moves of the First War of the Three Daughters and the reaction by Volantis. Thank you all for reading and stay tuned!**


	24. Chapter 24

Davos set down his spoon and sighed gustily. The Purple Octopus was hardly the best tavern in the riverfront district of King's Landing, but its cook made a good fish stew and the ale wasn't half bad either. In addition to which, and best of all for a smuggler, it was the sort of place where the City Watch wasn't welcome. The Mudfoot garrison patrolled River Row and Fishmonger's Square well enough, and the harbor a lot more than Davos liked, but the narrow streets that led off River Row saw goldcloaks in platoon strength or not at all. The riverfront district wasn't Flea Bottom, but it was lawless enough that a wise man went armed and kept his friends close.

Which made the stranger who had just walked in an oddity. Tall enough that he had to duck his head under the lintel of the door and not obviously armed, he was accompanied only by a short, weasel-faced fellow who pointed at Davos and then ducked out. Davos made a mental note to drop by that particular man's shop to renegotiate their relationship. The stranger walked over, sat down at Davos' table and lowered the hood of his gray cloak to reveal a weathered oval face with a short beard, gray eyes, and shoulder-length dark brown hair. "Are you Davos the smuggler?" he asked softly, prompting Davos' son Matthos to drop a hand to his dagger only to be forestalled by a glance from Davos.

"I might be," he said evenly, mentally reviewing the number and placement of the knives he carried on his person (one on his belt, one in his right boot-top, and a punch dagger in his left sleeve). "Who's asking?"

"Someone with a job," the stranger said, accepting a mug of ale from one of the tavern's serving wenches and wrapping both hands around it. "I'm told you can get cargo anywhere. Can you carry people?"

"If you're looking for a slaver, go to Tyrosh," Davos snapped. "I'll have nought to do with it."

"As it happens, the job involves Tyrosh," the stranger said, apparently unruffled by either Davos' rebuff or Matthos' snarl. "I'm looking for a way to get three hundred people into Tyrosh with no one the wiser. And before you repeat yourself, they won't be slaves. Can you do it?"

Davos frowned; while one part of his brain calculated the space in his ship's hold and the amount of space taken up by the average person, the other part was calculating the man across from him. _Northern accent, and Winterfell, at that, but something strange underneath it. Certainly has the hair and eyes to be a northman, but he wasn't born north of the Neck, I think. Carries himself like a fighting man, and a good one. Talks like he has some education, but not like a noble. No livery badge on his tunic, but confident enough that he_ must _have a lord of some sort, and a powerful one at that._ Davos was a fair judge of men, but the best he was getting from this man was _sellsword_ and that didn't fit. Sellswords would rather go out in public naked than unarmed, as this man appeared to be. "I won't be able to do it all at once," he said finally. "There's only so much space in the hold of my ship and if you want this all under the table, that space will have to be curtailed by a cover cargo. Call it four or five trips, all up."

The stranger frowned. "Any chance you could cut it down to one? If it's a matter of cost, I'm willing to meet any price to get all my people there in one go."

Davos blinked. _Three hundred people from Westeros to Tyrosh, all in one trip, covertly, and price no object? What's going on here?_ "I think this is the sort of conversation we should have elsewhere," he said, beckoning for the serving wench. "One moment, please."

Five minutes later, Davos and the stranger were in a vacant room upstairs, with Matthos standing outside the door to keep away unwanted eavesdroppers. "What's the game here, friend?" Davos asked brusquely. "What's so important about getting three hundred people to Tyrosh in one bound that you'll pay any price for it?"

The stranger regarded Davos for a long second, and then pulled the glove off his left hand and held it up in front of him. The light in the room was relatively good, what with a west-facing window letting in the evening sun, and the glint of metal was obvious. As was the fact that the metal hand moved exactly like a hand of flesh and blood would.

Davos' heart turned over. _Everyone_ had heard about that hand, and the man it was attached to. "The Winter Soldier," he said, priding himself on having only a faint wobble in his voice at the thought of being alone in the same room as the deadliest slayer in Westeros. "So this isn't a pleasure cruise then?"

The Iron Hand of the North shook his head. "My mission is to either take the city of Tyrosh or render it vulnerable to assault by the royal fleet," he said simply. "To do that, I need to get my regiment into the city undetected and for that I need the best smuggler in the business. Which means you. Can you do it?"

Davos frowned, then nodded. "It'll be tricky, but I can do it," he said firmly. "I'll need a few days to get the ships and crews together, but with any luck, we can get your men onto Tyrosh within three sennights."

The Winter Soldier nodded. "Excellent. When you have the ships and the crews ready, come to Redgrass Barracks and ask for me. I'll arrange for you to meet my officers and we can develop a plan and settle on a price. Once we are feet dry on Tyrosh, your part in this is over and you can sail wherever you like. Just keep all this to yourself until then. Sound good?"

"Aye, it does that," Davos said, holding out his hand. The Winter Soldier stripped off his other glove and shook his hand in a grip that Davos could tell instantly would have no problem crushing his hand like an eggshell. "See you at Redgrass Barracks."

"See you there," the Winter Soldier said, before replacing his gloves and walking out the door. Davos stood in place for a moment until his heart stopped beating jig-time against his ribs and then followed him out.

"Matthos, run and get Dale and Allard," he said shortly. "Bring them by the house. Tell them its business."


	25. Chapter 25

There were worse things to be, Victarion Greyjoy decided, than a King's Reaver.

Oh, there was some fancy Greenlander word for it, privateer, if he remembered correctly, but he was reaving on behalf of the King of Westeros and so that made him a King's Reaver. Why hide what you were?

 _Especially when the fighting and the loot were as good as this_ , he mused, looking over the spoils from this latest sea-fight as he absent-mindedly wiped the blood off his axe. The Lysene cog had been carrying two hundred slaves, which would fetch a reward of a gold dragon apiece when they were taken to King's Landing for emancipation. In addition to the silk which had been under the captain's bunk, the profit from this voyage would be double that of a raid on a coastal village, even on the Orange Shore.

 _And the king will be happy that we sank those two galleys, as well._ The instructions to King's Reavers had recently been added to; in addition to interdicting the slave trade and bringing slaves to King's Landing for emancipation, there was to be a handsome reward for every warship from Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, or Volantis that was sunk, burned, or taken. You had to bring proof, but Victarion had the head and signet ring of one of the Lysene captains and the other had been taken alive, so that should handle that.

Apparently, there was to be war with the Three Daughters, or so the last Westerosi ship they had encountered had said. Victarion grinned wolfishly. A good war, with good loot and a king's favor for those who fought? And Balon wanted to stay home? So long as Victarion Greyjoy could captain a ship and wield an axe, King Aegon would not lack for King's Reavers, he vowed.


	26. Chapter 26

Tyrosh being a walled city on an island, it could not be taken by assault unless its harbor was seized in the first wave. And the key to Tyrosh's harbor was the Bleeding Tower.

Situated on a breakwater that sheltered the east-facing harbor from waves stirred up by west-bound winds, the Bleeding Tower contained fourteen heavy springalds, the lightest of which fired a seven-pound bolt, as well as a quartet of heavy mangonels on the top floor that could hurl twenty-pound stones. In addition to the engines and a garrison of five hundred men, the Bleeding Tower also controlled the harbor chain, which could, upon command, seal off access to the harbor by any ship afloat. Between the Bleeding Tower and the city walls, Tyrosh was easily defensible.

That being said, it did have weaknesses. The social emphasis on trade rather than arms as the proper profession of the upper class meant that the city's land defenses were chronically underfunded in favor of the fleet. The Bleeding Tower was meant to hold a garrison of a thousand men, of which only about a third would man the engines, but the current garrison numbered only five hundred, of which only about two hundred were infantrymen as opposed to engine-handlers. The rest of the city garrison was not in much better state, being hired more for their cheapness than their fighting skills. These men were the shallow end of the sellsword pool, being lazy, slovenly, and generally unsoldierly. This was reinforced by the blasé attitude of the Archon and the Conclave. What matter that the city's defenders were not of the best, when no one would be stupid enough to attack Tyrosh city in the first place?

Another weakness of the Bleeding Tower was that although it's exterior walls were stone, its interior walls, floors, ceilings, and furnishings were all wooden. As such, it was highly vulnerable to fire.

Which was amply demonstrated when the first incendiary, a wine bottle filled with lard-thickened olive oil with a grain alcohol-soaked rag for a wick, was lobbed through a second story arrow slit.

Within three minutes, between the first incendiary and the barrage of others that targeted arrow slits, engine-ports, the main gate, and the sally port, the lower floors were well ablaze and the screaming from inside was reaching a crescendo. Some ten minutes later, flashover occurred, the interior supports gave way, and there was a rumbling crash as the interior floors of the Bleeding Tower collapsed. By this time, however, the perpetrators had vacated the scene; they were satisfied that the Tower was beyond saving and the harbor chain had come snaking out from the base of the tower, the last several yards of it glowing red from the heat, and fallen into the harbor, thus fulfilling that part of the mission.

The rest of the mission, however, still remained, despite the fact that the din of combat had been rising from the city for several minutes. The Special Service Regiment might be one of the best regiments in the best army in Westeros, and they might be led by the Winter Soldier, but only half of the regiment was actually on the island and for them to subdue a city of several hundred thousand people was a tall order. The only feasible way for them to do so, in fact, was to exploit and sustain as far as possible the shock value of their surprise assault.

So the Special Service Regiment rampaged through the city indiscriminately, killing everyone that came within reach of their weapons and hurling incendiaries at random. The only exceptions to the destruction were the slave barracks, where the slaves were handed any spare weapon that came to hand and told to take their revenge. The slaves set to with a will, but none more so than a group of wildlings who had been taken only a few months ago and still retained the belligerent nature of their people despite near-starvation, liberal application of the lash and the execution by public torture of some of their ringleaders. These took to the fight with a savagery that gave even their kindred of the Special Service Regiment pause, especially the women, who had been singled out for particularly brutal treatment.

By the time the royal fleet of Westeros arrived around noon the next day, delivering the rest of the Special Service Regiment and three other Northern regiments, Tyrosh was all but prostrate. Scattered holdouts were still being reduced by the freed slaves, reinforced by squads of the Special Service Regiment, but the Bleeding Tower had been destroyed, along with the barracks of the city guards, the Archon's Palace, the offices of the Master of Slaves, which were situated just off the main slave market, and most of the Northern Quarter, where Tyrosh's elites dwelled. Stannis Baratheon, Master of Ships and commander of the royal fleet, wrote in his report to King Aegon VI that "The city was already thoroughly sacked when I arrived, with much of the richer part of the city burned and those of the inhabitants not slain so terrorized that they would not, I deemed, leave their houses for any reason . . . The freed slaves, especially the women, have been terribly vicious. Many of them say that they will not rest until every Tyroshi slaveholder is dead or reduced to bondage as they were . . . I disagree, of course, with their impulse to enslave their former masters, but I concur with the belief that the more these slavers are put to the sword, the better. The conditions in which the former slaves were housed were, in large part, unfit to house livestock, much less men, and the stories the former slaves told of how they were treated are enough to sicken even hardened soldiers."


	27. Chapter 27

The Triarchs of Volantis sat in solemn silence as the last words of the captain's report were read out. From beginning to end, the news had been grim. Their pirate auxiliaries burned out of the Stepstones island by island, the Lysene fleet cut to pieces and driven back into their harbors by Greyjoy and Lannister ships, Oberyn Martell and Stannis Baratheon besieging Myr while Robert Baratheon and Elbert Arryn ravaged the Disputed Lands. But most disconcerting of all was the news that Tyrosh had been taken by storm in a single surprise assault. That argued either treachery or an act of the gods.

"Well, friends," one of the triarchs said finally, "can we deny that the Andals have made a fearsome showing of their strength?"

"No," said the second, leaner than his more corpulent colleague who had first spoken. "This outpouring of strength is almost reminiscent of old Valyria."

"I warned you this would come," said the third triarch, a short-bearded man with a tigers-head pin fastening his cloak. "I warned you that Westeros was a growing giant that should be strangled in the crib. If my words had been heeded, this would not have happened."

"We cannot alter the past, so let us not dwell on it," said the first triarch, running a thumb over his elephant-head ring. "Let us instead focus on what we shall do in the future. I shall draft orders to the fleet to place itself in readiness. The army must also be mustered."

"What concerns me is the news from Tyrosh," said the second triarch. "What use fleet or army, when the Winter Soldier can come into a city and overthrow it in a single night?"

"There I have an answer," said the third triarch. "Malaquo Maegyr is without, and has with him something that I think may counter this Winter Soldier." He gestured to one of the porters and the man opened a side door to admit Malaquo Maegyr and a dozen Unsullied, who stamped to a halt in perfect unison and fell to parade rest.

"Unsullied?" the second triarch asked. "How shall these eunuchs defeat the Winter Soldier?"

"These are a new type of Unsullied," said the third triarch. "When news first reached me of the Winter Soldier, I sent word to Astapor for Unsullied trained to certain specifications. Malaquo, describe them, if you would."

"Masters," Malaquo said, "these Unsullied originally numbered five hundred, specially chosen for bravery, skill, and strength. They were given new training, not only in fighting as a unit, but as individuals. Those that survived the initial training were sent to the fighting pits, where they were always matched against either odds of three to one or greater, or against proven champions. The Unsullied standing before you are the survivors of two years in the pits, where they faced every sort of foe on earth and proved victorious. For their last test, they faced a century of regular Unsullied in the pits, and there they slew every one of them. This I saw with my own eyes, in Jothiel's Pit. Both individually and as a unit, they are the deadliest slayers in Essos."

"And these can defeat the Winter Soldier?" asked the first triarch skeptically.

Malaquo bowed. "Master, if these Unsullied cannot bring you the Winter Soldier's head, I give him leave to send you mine."

"Very well, then," the second triarch said. "When war is declared, dispatch them against the Winter Soldier and do not recall them unless they bring his head and his metal arm. Until then, they shall provide the guard for these chambers. Drop by the treasury on your way out, Malaquo, and any costs incurred in acquiring these Unsullied will be reimbursed."

 **So my thinking for the Westerosi strategy is more or less as follows.**

 **1\. Of the Three Daughters, the two that Westeros can most easily strike at are Myr and Tyrosh. This is a function of distance.**

 **2\. Of those two, Tyrosh has to fall first, unless the Westerosi want a hostile naval base and fleet in their rear while they besiege Myr.**

 **3\. Lys not being a major land power, they can be neutralized by driving their fleet off the seas and dealt with later.**

 **4\. The Stepstones can wait until the Three Daughters are neutralized, but if reinforcements for the siege of Myr decide to get some practice in burning out pirate nests, all well and good.**

 **5\. Volantis is far enough away that their land forces can be ignored for now. Medieval armies are** ** _slow,_** **unless they're the Mongols.**

 **So Bucky gets tasked with taking Tyrosh by** ** _coup de main_** **, which he does, while Myr is subjected to a conventional siege/chevauchee campaign. Myr is holding out for now, but they're thinking seriously about surrendering. No one wants to get sacked, especially not when they have several thousand slaves within the walls waiting to join in the rape, pillage, and burn part.**

 **Volantis gets spooked and decides to mobilize, but they're wary of the Winter Soldier. Fortunately for them, the tigers got their heads together and asked Astapor to make them Unsullied versions of the Winter Soldier. They have yet to make their combat debut outside the fighting pits, but hopes are high on the Volantene's part. At two thousand gold marks a head, they really want their money's worth.**

 **Stay tuned!**


	28. Chapter 28

"The First War of the Three Daughters ended almost a year after it began with the surrender of Myr. The terms that ended the siege were remarkably generous, given that a general sack had been expected; the Myrish fleet was confiscated by the Westerosi, save for twenty galleys to patrol the Sea of Myrth, a war indemnity of seventy-five thousand gold dragons was imposed, and Myr was forbidden from taking part in the slave trade. Slavery within the city and its domains was not forbidden, but any slave who claimed asylum with the Westerosi forces was transported to Westeros for emancipation. Westerosi traders within Myr were also given extraterritorial status, being given control of a borough close to the waterfront with rights to fortify and garrison it as they chose; the 'Andal Quarter', as it was commonly called, shortly became a haven for runaway slaves, who believed that their entry into the borough made them freemen.

Tyrosh was subjected to a harsher settlement. The Tyroshi fleet was entirely confiscated, the harbor defenses placed under Westerosi control, and the office of 'Warden of the Stepstones' was established, to be headquartered on Tyrosh. The Warden of the Stepstones was charged with maintaining the King's Peace in the Stepstones archipelago, as well as exerting command and control over royal forces in the Narrow Sea between Estermont and Lys. This amounted to establishing a military government over Tyrosh and the Stepstones, as the Warden was given veto powers over any act of the civil power that 'was prejudicial to the King's Peace and the security of the Realm'. The first Warden, therefore, would have to be a man of astute judgment, as well as a tried commander. Oberyn Martell certainly fit the latter part of the bill, having successfully commanded forces in both the Rebellion and the Siege of Myr, but he had little experience of civil governance. It has been suggested that King Aegon appointed his uncle to the post to do honor to the Dornish fleet that had done so much to conquer the Stepstones, but this author thinks it more likely that Aegon appointed Oberyn to the post to continue his exclusion from Court, as Oberyn's conduct during the war had significantly increased his reputation and led some to suggest that he deserved to be brought back to Court.

Lys, having not come under direct attack during the war, was let off with the lightest terms of all. A war indemnity of thirty thousand gold dragons was almost the only punitive measure, along with official abolition of the slave trade. When pressed on the impracticability of enforcing the abolition by King Aegon, Jon Arryn, who had negotiated the treaty, merely said, 'I know the Lyseni will break the treaty, Your Grace, just as Myr will. This makes them vulnerable in case we ever need them to be.' This has since been cited by almost every proponent of realpolitik as evidence of their doctrine's moral usefulness, as without such justifications, it is unlikely that further disturbances in southern Essos would have necessarily led to war.

Volantis, being deprived of their _causus belli_ by the capitulation of the Three Daughters, came to their own terms with Westeros in the Peace of Pentos, which delineated the spheres of influence of the major powers of the Narrow Sea. Volantis was recognized as sovereign over the River Rhoyne watershed as far as The Sorrows, as well as the Orange Shore and 'points eastward of the city'. Westeros was recognized as sovereign over the Stepstones, including Tyrosh, and was granted power of intervention in the Disputed Lands to 'promote the safety and well-being of the King's subjects in those lands'. Braavos was recognized as sovereign over northwestern Essos, including Pentos, and concluded a separate treaty with Westeros regarding basing rights in Tyrosh and Dorne and mutual defensive action. This separate treaty, when it became known to the Volantenes, was almost the death of the Peace of Pentos, but the problems Volantis had encountered when trying to mobilize their military during the War of the Three Daughters precluded any irrevocable actions. The Volantenes did, however, issue a stern warning to both Braavos and Westeros against interfering with Volantene commerce.

Reaction to the treaty that ended the War of the Three Daughters and the Peace of Pentos was mixed. The High Septon proclaimed it as evidence of the favor of the gods 'that our holy faith should spread to the benighted shores of the east.' The influential Volantene tiger Malaquo Maegyr, upon reading the Peace of Pentos, exclaimed 'This is not peace; this is an armistice for ten years at most.' Tywin Lannister was heard to remark that he had underestimated King Aegon after reading the treaty and the Peace, while Ferrego Antaryon, the Sealord of Braavos, publicly expressed satisfaction to the council of keyholders and magisters that Braavos 'had so powerful a friend, and one so abhorrent of slavery, as His Grace King Aegon.'

Needless to say, the Peace of Pentos left unresolved the issue of slavery, merely affirming the laws that each power had on the books. It also said nothing about the Dothraki, despite their presence throughout Essos, epitomized by the _khalasar_ of khal Drogo, which in 301 crossed the southern Velvet Hills into the lower Flatlands. Given the troubles that Volantis had encountered in the mobilization of 298-99, and the subsequent military reforms it had undertaken under the new tiger-dominated Triarchy, it was perhaps inevitable that they would try to seize the opportunity provided, despite the imminent onset of winter.

\- _Dragon Rising: The Early Years of Aegon the Sixth_ by Maester Hereyn, published 497 AC

 **Author note: To start off with, I want to thank you all for the reviews and the follows. That kind of positive reaction is what makes us authors better at our craft and it makes the hours of typing worth it. Thank you, all of you.**

 **So that basically wraps up the Stepstones and the Three Daughters, for the nonce. With Tyrosh taken, Lys neutralized, and Myr surrendering, Volantis doesn't really have anything left to fight for this time around, so they accept the new status quo and start planning for the next go-round. Westeros and Braavos formalize their relationship, to Volantis' consternation, and the dust starts to settle.**

 **Of course, the story doesn't end there; for one thing, we haven't seen the super-Unsullied (named the Untouchables per fan recommendation) in action and we haven't heard from the Dothraki yet. And there are problems brewing in Westeros as well . . .**

 **Some questions/concerns from the reviews to address.**

 **Firstly, some of you have commented on Bucky's relative absence from the story. That's partly deliberate, in point of fact. Bucky is supremely badass, but he's only one guy, whose particular skill set is pretty heavily biased towards the military end of things and who is pretty heavily dependent on the Starks for power and influence. And while Bucky is one of the most valued vassals the Starks have, he's middle management at best, so his influence on the world beyond the North is pretty limited. Mind, there are some areas in which his knowledge has made an impact (King's Landing's sewer system has been redone for one thing, and personal hygiene has become much more a hallmark of the elite) but he's still a minor influence on the world at large. The Westerosi aren't going to develop a modern industrial state simply off Bucky's knowledge alone.**

 **Secondly, there's been some agitation for Bucky to lead a popular revolt. I'm afraid that's not in the cards, and it's a function of feasibility. For one thing, popular revolts don't really end well unless the revolting peasants have access to gunpowder weapons and even then it's a chancy thing. In point of fact, from what I've read of history, major powers didn't start to be violently overthrown by popular revolts until 1917, or thereabouts. Sure, Bucky's one hell of a force multiplier, but he's only one guy, he can't be everywhere and do everything. In addition to which, Bucky actually likes the Starks and while he doesn't care much for the rest of the Westerosi aristocracy, the fact remains that he has a lot more in common with them than he does with Joe Average Peasant. So Bucky leading a French Revolution-type scenario is unlikely at best.**

 **Third and lastly, of course the Untouchables aren't a match for Bucky, but they're the best Volantis has at the moment. And honestly, if anyone has a chance of going toe-to-toe with Bucky and winning, they do. They'll kill the average Westerosi knight or lord without much difficulty. Some of the bigger badasses, like the Stark brothers, Robert Baratheon, Oberyn Martell, Victarion Greyjoy, most of the Kingsguard, the Clegane brothers, and some of the officers in the Royal Corps of Guides would be able to go one-on-one oreven two-on-one with them, but at odds greater than that, even Big Bobby B and the Cleganes would start losing.**

 **As for family trees, look for those two chapters down the line, 'cos that's when the younger generation starts entering the story.**

 **Cheers, all!**


	29. Chapter 29

Khal Drogo looked at the Volantene envoy and sneered to himself. This white-headed, skinny runt in his fancy gilded armor was so gratingly arrogant that it was only by dint of great patience that Drogo had not beheaded him. Oh, his words were respectful enough, or at least, the slave who was translating the Volantene's words from bastard Valyrian to Dothraki was using respectful language, but the very way the man sat his horse (a casual carelessness rather than the natural grace of a true rider) conveyed the man's pride in himself and his disdain for everyone around him. He also wore a heavy, fur-lined cloak, despite the fact that it wasn't even snowing. For his part, Drogo's only concession to the cold was a sleeveless vest which he wore unfastened. He had killed his first man in a bare-chested knife duel fought in knee-deep snow; he cared no more for the cold than he did for the blades of his enemies.

"Ask him why I should lead my khalasar against Myr," he said, not bothering to look at the translator-slave. "They have no gold to pay me since the Andals defeated them, and I can find gold and slaves along the Rhoyne without having to fight for them."

Belicho Maegyr, second son of that family, kept his features schooled to diplomatic blankness as he digested the barbarian's words. He had to admire the barbarian's stones at least; it took a lot of gall to threaten the First Daughter of Valyria, even obliquely. Not that it was surprising, of course. One did not rise to leadership of a _khalasar_ forty thousand strong by faintheartedness, and it was only to be expected that a Dothraki would have a beast's self-confidence, being barely a step up from beasts themselves. "Tell the khal," he said, not deigning to look at the translator slave, "that the Triarchs will pay him handsomely to take the city of Myr, and give him the friendship of Volantis as well, which is more valuable than gold or slaves."

 _Indeed, until the time of knife and arakh comes,_ Drogo thought to himself as the translator-slave finished speaking. City-men all lied, it was known. And as for payment, he was a khal of the Dothraki, not a common sellsword. Not that there was anything wrong with taking gold for fighting, but it had to be a lot of gold; forty thousand riders gave you rights. "Ask him; if I were to attack Myr, how should we get over the walls," he said, not looking at the translator-slave. "We cannot break stone walls with our _arakhs_ , or open gates with our whips." It was an old problem for the Dothraki, one they traditionally solved by not having to; a reputation for savagery was just as good as a battering ram and not as clumsy.

Belicho allowed himself a small smile of triumph. "Tell the khal," he said, keeping his eyes on that particular barbarian, "that we of Volantis have the means to open a gate for his riders." He waved a hand at the Untouchables standing behind him in double ranks. "Tell him the Untouchables are the finest killers in the world, that they are to Unsullied what Unsullied are to Dothraki."

Drogo blinked slowly as he transferred his gaze from the Volantene (what kind of man had not even a moustache, anyway, and wore his hair short?) to the spearmen standing behind him. The story of khal Temmo and the Spikeheads of Qohor was burned into the memory of every Dothraki. If these men were better than the Spikeheads, then they were fierce indeed. "Ask him," he said, ignoring the translator-slave, "what payment does Volantis offer for the taking of Myr?"

Belicho suppressed a shout of triumph. It would not do to get carried away in front of these savages. "Tell the khal," he said, not looking at the translator-slave, "that Volantis will pay one hundred thousand gold marks for the city of Myr, and that his _khalasar_ may take whatever loot they can carry and as many slaves as they can drive. Volantis asks only that they destroy utterly that part of the city called the Andal Quarter, so that one stone does not stand on another."

Drogo could hear his bloodriders and his _kos_ stir and murmur behind him as the translator-slave finished speaking. One hundred thousand gold marks, and all the loot and slaves they wished? By any standards, it was a princely sum. Drogo considered for a moment, and then raised his hand to silence his men. "Tell the Volantene," he said to the translator-slave, keeping his eyes on the Volantene's face, "that when we are done with the Andal Quarter, he will be able to gallop his horse across it and not fall. Tell him also," he added, glowering, "that if this is a trick, I will drag him behind my horse from Myr to Volantis and raise his head on a pike to watch his city burn."

Belicho fought down the urge to strangle the barbarian. "Tell the khal," he said, "that I shall ride beside him myself against Myr, and if I play him false, I give him leave to sack Volantis to his heart's content." That was well in excess of his orders, but grandfather Malaquo would forgive him when it worked. The retaking of Myr would be the first step on the glittering stairs of empire that it was Volantis' fate to ascend, until the domains of Valyria were regained and all the world bowed to Volantis.

 **Author note: So that's what Volantis and the Dothraki are getting up to. Stay tuned for the domestic quarrels of the Seven Kingdoms.**


	30. Chapter 30

**Before we move on, here are the family trees I have come up with. If a particular house is not on here, it is because they are not significantly changed from OTL.**

 **House Stark**

 **-** **Rickard Stark (234 AC-300 AC) married Lyarra Stark (237 AC-270 AC) and had issue**

 **1.** **Brandon Stark (262 AC-Present) married Catelyn Tully (264 AC-Present) and had issue**

 **a)** **Cregan Stark (283 AC-Present): Stark face and Tully hair, served in Tyrosh during the War of the Three Daughters, but did not see battle. Heir to Winterfell, and so largely tied to the North, except for wartime mobilizations.**

 **b)** **Minisa Stark (285 AC-Present): her mother in miniature, engaged to Domeric Bolton, who is currently a captain in the Dreadfort Horse. (OTL Sansa Stark absent most of the naivety, thanks to Bucky telling her about how HYDRA treated the women on their payroll).**

 **c)** **Marna Stark (285 AC-Present): Stark eyes, but otherwise mostly Tully in feature. The only one of Brandon Stark's children to adopt their mother's religion.**

 **d)** **Brynden Stark (287 AC-Present): His father in miniature; wants nothing more than to be an officer in the Winterfell Guards.**

 **2.** **Eddard Stark (263 AC-Present) married Ashara Dayne (260 AC-Present) and had issue**

 **a)** **Artos Stark (282 AC-Present): Stark face and hair, Dayne eyes. Saw action in the War of the Three Daughters accompanying his uncle Robert. Capable fighter and leader, but not currently an officer, as he expects to inherit the holdfast Brandon has set aside in the North for whenever Eddard decides to leave royal employment. Insofar as Aegon's crown allows him to have friends, Artos is one of the closest he has. It has been speculated at Court that he might join the Kingsguard when the next vacancy opens, but he has no ambitions in that regard. Has a rather keen political sense, thanks to growing up at Court.**

 **b)** **Robb Stark (285 AC-Present): Stark hair but mostly Dayne in features. Also saw action in the War of the Three Daughters accompanying his uncle Robert. One of the better swordsmen of his generation, enough so that he is considered a likely candidate for the next Sword of the Morning. Currently a lieutenant of horse in the Royal Corps of Guides.**

 **c)** **Rickon Stark (286 AC- Present): Has the dark blue version of the Dayne eyes, but otherwise Stark in his features. Wants to join either the Guides or the Royal Marines.**

 **d)** **Arya Stark (288 AC-Present): Her aunt Lyanna in miniature, but with somewhat more self-control than Lyanna had at her age. The fact that she can't join the Guides is a sore point; her plan B is the Special Service Regiment, much to her parent's dismay, as they have been considering betrothing her to Trystane Martell.**

 **3.** **Lyanna Stark (267 AC-Present) married Robert Baratheon and had issue**

 **a)** **Jon Baratheon (284 AC-Present): Has his father's hair and build but his mother's face. Saw action in the War of the Three Daughters accompanying his father. Good-hearted, but possessed of a volcanic temper when provoked. Does not currently hold an officer's commission, but is often at Court, as he is good friends with his cousins.**

 **b)** **Steffon Baratheon (285 AC-Present): Also has his father's hair and build but his mother's face. Was his father's squire during the War of the Three Daughters. Prefers to stay at Storm's End.**

 **c)** **Lyarra Baratheon (287 AC-Present): Has her father's hair and her mother's spirit. Has declared that she will only accept a husband who she deems worthy of her. Lyanna is somewhat exasperated at her daughter's willfulness, which Robert finds hilarious.**

 **4.** **Benjen Stark (267 AC-Present) married Jonelle Cerwyn (267 AC-289 AC) and had issue**

 **a)** **Edwyle Stark (287 AC-Present)**

 **b)** **Beron Stark (289 AC-Present): Insofar as Edwyle and Beron have ambitions, they want to join either the Winterfell Guards or the Reconnaissance Regiment.**

 **House Baratheon**

 **Steffon Baratheon (246 AC-278 AC) married Cassana Estermont and had issue**

 **1.** **Robert Baratheon (262 AC-Present) married Lyanna Stark and had previously specified issue**

 **2.** **Stannis Baratheon (264 AC-Present) married Janna Tyrell (260 AC-Present) and had issue**

 **a)** **Lyonel Baratheon (285 AC-Present): Has the Baratheon hair but is somewhat less somber than his father. Currently oarmaster on his father's flagship,** ** _King Aegon's Fire._**

 **b)** **Cassana Baratheon (287 AC-Present)**

 **c)** **Olenna Baratheon (287 AC-Present): Cassana and Olenna are twins, with the Baratheon hair and mischievous temperaments. They have been taking lessons in intrigue from their grandmother. They are part of the reason Stannis' hair is turning grey at a relatively young age. (Inspired by AJNolte's characters in** ** _Shadows of the Trident_** **)**

 **3.** **Renly Baratheon (277 AC-Present): Still a bachelor, despite being handsome, a proven fighter (saw action with his brother in the Myrish hinterlands), and well-connected. Has sworn blood-brotherhood with Ser Loras Tyrell; the two of them have become one of the most feared jousting teams on the tourney circuit.**

 **House Targaryen**

 **Aerys Targaryen (244 AC-283 AC) married Rhaella Targaryen (245 AC-) and had surviving issue**

 **1.** **Rhaegar Targaryen (259 AC-Present) married Elia Martell (256 AC-Present) and had issue**

 **a)** **Rhaenys Targaryen (280 AC-Present): Recently married to Edmure Tully and expecting their first child at Riverrun.**

 **b)** **Aegon Targaryen (282 AC-Present)**

 **2.** **Viserys Targaryen (276 AC-Present) married Mylessa Lannister (273 AC-Present) and had issue**

 **a)** **Daeron Targaryen (294 AC-Present): Largely ignored by his father and consequently raised mostly by his mother. Wants nothing more than to be a Kingsguard knight.**

 **3.** **Daenerys Targaryen (284 AC-Present): Presently unmarried, and one of the most sought after bachelorettes in the Realm, both for her beauty and her royal blood. Views Aegon more as an older brother than a nephew. Mostly holds aloof from Court, but has been known to play cyvasse with Artos Stark.**

 **House Lannister**

 **Tywin Lannister (242 AC-Present) married Joanna Lannister (247 AC-273 AC) and had issue**

 **1.** **Jaime Lannister (266 AC-Present): Still in the Kingsguard. Tywin refuses to give up hope that he can persuade Aegon to release Jaime from his vows, but as Jaime is one of Aegon's closest confidantes, this is unlikely at best. Hasn't seen Cersei since the end of the Rebellion.**

 **2.** **Cersei Lannister (266 AC-Present) married Lyle Crakehall and had issue**

 **a)** **Joffrey Lannister (286 AC-Present): Has his mother's face, but is otherwise his father's son. Followed his father to the War of the Three Daughters, but long travel times overland meant that they arrived the day before Myr surrendered. Consequently feels that he has something to prove, especially when compared to the Stark brothers.**

 **b)** **Tommen Lannister (288 AC-Present): More easygoing than his driven brother, but also more book-smart. Very interested in finance, to the dismay of his warrior father.**

 **c)** **Joanna Lannister (290 AC-Present): The apple of her father and grandfather's eyes. Not currently betrothed, but Tywin is thinking long and hard.**

 **3.** **Tyrion Lannister (273 AC-Present): Not officially welcome at Court, thanks to his rakehell reputation, but nonetheless bounces back and forth between King's Landing and Casterly Rock whenever he makes one of them too hot to hold him. Tywin grits his teeth and mutters about disgrace and Aegon scowls and mutters about conduct unbecoming, but Tyrion is nevertheless popular with both the younger generation, for his ability to arrange a party, and the people whose businesses he patronizes, for being a reliably high-paying customer who doesn't try to welch on the bill.**

 **House Arryn**

 **Jon Arryn (219 AC-Present) had no surviving issue from his first two marriages, but subsequently married Lysa Tully (267 AC-Present) and had surviving issue.**

 **1.** **Robert Arryn (291 AC –Present): A small and sniveling lad, but nonetheless game. His mother is somewhat overprotective, but his father's encouragement and King Aegon's interest in his Hand's son mitigates any potential ill effects of this.**

 **Elbert Arryn (262 AC-Present) married Drusella Waynwood and had issue.**

 **1.** **Harrold Arryn (286 AC-Present): Aware that he is the spare to a weak boy five years his junior and somewhat resentful. Eager to make a name for himself.**

 **On with the show!**

In the event, the Dothraki did not ride against Myr until the winter of 301-307 abated, despite the cajolery of the Volantene tigers. The difficulties of a winter campaign, especially the lack of good grazing the Dothraki required for their horses, precluded any attempt at a serious attack. This was just as well for the Westerosi, as the winter of 301-307 came with a spate of political difficulties, mainly focusing on the Faith.

The Faith had been a quietly simmering kettle of discontent for some years prior to the crisis of 302. King Aegon was notably pious, as were his mother, aunt, and sister, and since Prince Oberyn Martell's dismissal from Court there had been remarkably few scandals. However, against this was set the fact that there was a not-insignificant number of Northmen in the capital, almost all of whom worshipped the Old Gods rather than the Seven-who-are-One. The fact that these Northmen, headed by Ser Eddard Stark, the Lord Marshal, were the core of the new Department of War exacerbated the enmity. The Faith recognized, if grudgingly, that the Army of the North had been responsible for the capture of Tyrosh and the subsequent expansion of the Faith overseas, but the Most Devout would have greatly preferred that Tyrosh had been taken by knights who had been anointed, belted, and dubbed in the light of the Seven, rather than the unwashed barbarians of the Special Service Regiment and their only slightly more civilized compatriots of the Army of the North.

The points that formed the crux of the Faith's opposition to the Northern faction at Court were threefold. Firstly, the senior ranks in the Royal Army were filled by Northmen; the Lord Marshal, the Inspector-General of Arms, the colonels and many of the subordinate officers in the two royal regiments were Northmen, almost all of them pagans. Secondly, the king had declared that the royal taxes of the North for the years 299 and 300 were remitted, thanks to the excellent service that the Army of the North had rendered in the War of the Three Daughters. Thirdly, and most inflammatory, a commission of septons sent to inspect the practices of the Snowy Sept of White Harbor returned a report detailing 'clear and obvious heterodoxies, unmistakably brought about by the pollution of the pagan creed of the Old Gods.' It was not meet, declared the High Septon, that such favor be shown to the pagans when they were the instigators of heresy.

Under normal circumstances, this might have blown over, but the High Septon died suddenly in the last week of 301, just after declaring the Snowy Sept to be in schism. Naturally, rumors of assassination immediately began to circulate, many of them focusing on the fact that Colonel Ser James Buchanan Barnes, the notorious Winter Soldier, had been in the capital at the time, discussing the security of the Red Keep with the King, Lord Commander Hightower, and Master-at-Arms Ser Aron Santagar. This author agrees with the conclusion of Grand Maester Pycelle that the cause of death was heart failure (the High Septon was famously obese; so much so, in fact, that he had not been able to walk under his own power for some time), but in the early weeks of 302, Pycelle's diagnosis was widely disregarded in favor of either sorcery, poison, or some more directly violent means. In such a fearful climate, it is perhaps not surprising that Septon Luceon, the favored candidate of the Most Devout, was passed over in favor of a former itinerant septon called the High Sparrow by the elites of King's Landing, which sobriquet he earned by his leadership of the populist movement called 'the sparrows'.

The sparrows were not at first a revival of the Faith Militant, as they later became, but were rather a popular reaction against the trade boom of the 280s and 290s. Although the national economy of Westeros grew significantly during those years, it vastly favored urban areas and especially urban elites. The agricultural districts of the Westerosi interior (a region generally considered to be an uneven pentagon between Red Lake, Deep Den, Tumbleton, Fawnton, and Harvest Hall) had seen very little growth compared to the exponential leaps made by the port cities and their hinterlands, and what wealth had penetrated so far inland was almost entirely concentrated in the coffers of the nobility. Although there is some truth to the conception of the feudal Westerosi peasant as a rustic yokel who almost never left his home village, there was substantially more exchange between city and countryside than might be expected in an era when the fastest mode of overland transportation was horseback; if nothing else, the surplus produce of the countryside had to be transported to the cities before it could be sold. Contact with carters, bargemen, and other such professional rovers meant that stories of the vast wealth pouring into the cities spread throughout Westeros.

This was reinforced by itinerant septons such as the High Sparrow had been, who served as something like the religious equivalent of a circuit court judge in that they wandered from village to village, usually in a relatively proscribed area, performing the sacraments of the Faith in whatever village they came to. In addition to confirming the stories about the new wealth of the cities, these wandering septons also widely condemned the vice and wickedness found in such places (with some justice; despite Randyll Tarly's vigorous efforts at enforcing the law, King's Landing still had a shockingly high crime rate, and in other cities it was often worse).

The element that truly sparked the sparrow movement, however, was the flood of emancipated slaves that came to Westeros during and after the War of the Three Daughters. The most popular fear was of competition for land and employment, although the fact that only a few of the former slaves were Seven-worshippers added to the revulsion. The fact that a substantial portion of former slaves converted to the Faith was conveniently forgotten, as was the fact that those who didn't went to Dorne or the North, where toleration was more the norm. To this was also added contempt on the part of the Westerosi peasantry; they might be the lowest of the low, but at least they had never submitted to the collar and the lash.

Between popular revulsion at the moral failings of the cities, the perhaps inevitable feeling of being stiffed of their share of the wealth from the trade boom, and the popular reaction against the influx of former slaves, it is not surprising that a wave of anti-urban sentiment swept the Westerosi interior starting in the mid to late 290s. Being a populist movement that only reached as far up the social ladder as some of the poorest landed knights, it almost immediately coalesced around the leadership of the itinerant septons, understandably so, as these were often the most educated and most professionally charismatic individuals in any given locality in the interior. This injected a strong strain of fundamentalist religion into the sparrows, as the itinerant septons often took a very direct view of the Faith and the commandments of the Seven-Pointed Star. Before long, the sparrows had come to assume many of the trappings of the Poor Fellows, taking the red seven-pointed star as their badge and organizing into troops as the Poor Fellows had done.

Under other circumstances, it is unlikely they would have become a problem outside the interior, but the High Septon, evidently in fear of the Winter Soldier's presence in King's Landing, had summoned the sparrows to the city to guard the Great Sept of Baelor 'so long as the Northern demon shall remain within King's Landing.' Needless to say, the sparrows flocked to King's Landing in droves as the High Septon's summons reached them, taking up residence in the Great Sept of Baelor and patrolling the grounds and the surrounding plaza. It was not long before the sparrows began to undertake aggressive foot patrols around Visenya's Hill, ostensibly to extirpate crime (which the sparrows defined quite broadly) but more likely to prevent any but native-born Faithful coming near the Great Sept. It was the presence of so many sparrows within King's Landing (Ser Eddard Stark estimated their numbers at around five to six thousand in a letter to his brother Lord Brandon and some of the more histrionic contemporary chroniclers write of the sparrows as numbering some ten times that estimate) and their vocal and demonstrative support that elevated the High Sparrow to the crystal crown.

Although the election of the High Sparrow left his followers elated, they were nonetheless not stupid enough to challenge the Iron Throne directly. For one thing, the sparrows had only hand weapons and hunting bows and very little in the way of armor, while the forces under Crown command within a day's march of the city were some of the finest in Westeros. They did, however, do their best to undermine and reduce the position of the Northmen in King's Landing. The most common means was what would today be called propaganda, both white and black, but some were impatient enough to resort to direct action.

\- _Test of Faith: King Aegon and the Crisis of 302_ by Jonos McBracken, published 1006 AC


	31. Chapter 31

Artos Stark eyed the group of sparrows that had arrayed themselves in front of Tobho Mott's shop with a jaundiced eye. He was no master of arms, but he was the son of one of Westeros' finest commanders and he knew what good soldiers looked like. These specimens certainly had the raw material to make decent soldiers, being sturdy-looking men with a truculent air about them, but they were not in any kind of regular formation and he could smell them at five yards despite the cold. Clearly, whoever had charge of discipline among the sparrows was unaware of the benefits of bathing.

One of the sparrows, a gaunt-looking young man with the seven-pointed star branded on his forehead, stepped forward. "Are you Artos Stark?" he asked shortly, prompting Artos to narrow his eyes. He was hardly a martinet like Lord Tarly, but the proprieties had to be observed.

"I am," he said. "Can I help you, goodman?" He was no friend of the sparrows, but as his father had always told him, courtesy cost nothing and could be an even more profitable investment than spices.

"His Holiness the High Septon wishes to speak with you at the Great Sept of Baelor," the sparrow announced, ignoring the sudden bristling from Artos' companions.

Artos gestured at Jon Baratheon to take his hand from his sword hilt. Jon was a good man, but he was given to hastiness at times. "I'm afraid that I haven't the time to answer His Holiness's request, as I am due at Redgrass Barracks for drill," he replied. "His Holiness is always welcome at the Red Keep, however, and I would be glad to host him at the Maidenvault." The Maidenvault had been turned over to the Department of War for its use when it was first embodied, and housed both the King's Landing branch of the Stark family and the small, but growing, bureaucracy of the Department.

"You misunderstand," the sparrow said coldly. "The High Septon wishes to speak with you at the Great Sept of Baelor and has charged us to bring you to him."

Artos raised an eyebrow. "Am I under arrest? Do you have a warrant from Lord Tarly at the Department of Justice, sworn out before a judge? No? Then I'm afraid His Holiness will have to be disappointed, because I am under no obligation to speak with him."

"His Holiness," the sparrow said, obviously restraining himself, repeated, "wishes to speak with you. If you will not come with us, then we will bring you to him by force if we must."

"Does this unwashed cur seek to threaten you, brother?" asked Artos' younger brother Robb as he walked out of the shop. "Doubtless he came to the city looking for the man who fathered his wife's children; let him look in the pox hospital for men with no taste. Or perhaps he tires of the embraces of sheep."

The sparrows growled and their spokesperson glared at Robb. "Be silent, boy," he snarled. "This is no concern of yours."

"My name is Robb Stark," Robb said, his light tone belied by the way he wrapped his left hand around the throat of his scabbard and pressed his thumb against the cross-guard of his sword, baring an inch of steel between guard and scabbard-mouth, "and you just threatened my brother. This _is_ my concern. And I don't know if you learned manners in Little Shitheap, or whatever pissant village you were born in, but a lieutenant of horse in the Royal Corps of Guides," he tapped the brass bar on the collar of his brigandine that designated his rank, "is addressed as lieutenant or sir, by lower ranks. Not boy."

"Peace," Artos said, raising his hands out to his sides. "There is no need for anyone to get testy; we are all loyal subjects of the King, here, under the King's Peace." The loyalty of the sparrows to the King and their respect for his Peace was naturally open to debate, especially in the Red Keep, but that didn't need to be mentioned. What did need to be mentioned was _his_ loyalty to the King and _his_ intent to abide by the King's Peace, as well as those with him.

"Pagans and heretics," the sparrow's spokesman said darkly, "are not subject to the King's Peace, says the High Septon." The other sparrows nodded and shifted their grips on the axes and spiked clubs that served them for weapons.

"The King, Gods save him, says otherwise," Jon Baratheon said coldly. "And to gainsay the King is treason." He drew his sword, as did Robb and the half-dozen Stark and Baratheon guardsmen accompanying them. Artos made no move to stop them, but neither did he draw his own sword. As the eldest member of the family present, command devolved on him, and Father had issued strict orders not to provoke a confrontation with the sparrows. The Northmen in King's Landing could defend themselves as much as they needed to, but they were not to strike the first blow.

The sparrow's spokesman transferred his glare from Robb to Artos. "His Holiness," he ground out, "wishes to speak with you at the Great Sept of Baelor. If you do not come with us freely, then we will constrain you."

"You may tell His Holiness," Artos said calmly, "that he has no authority to bind or loose me, or order others to do so, without a warrant signed by the King. I must, therefore, decline his invitation."

The sparrow's spokesman nodded. "As the Gods will it, then," he said, turning away. "Take him alive, along with the other lordlings," he said flatly. "Kill their men."

"Gentlemen, leave their spokesman alive, if you can," Artos commanded, drawing his sword. "Kill the rest of them."

The sparrows probably had a few among them who had seen combat, either in the rebellion or in one of the armed pissing matches that their lords used to define the food chain. Those that hadn't had learned how to fight in festival day punch-ups and alehouse brawls. Artos, Robb, and Jon were the sons of two of the most famous warriors in Westeros, with some of the finest training that money could buy. As for their guardsmen, the four Northmen were veterans of the Winterfell Guards and the two Stormlanders who accompanied Jon were hedge knights who had lived by their wits and their sword-craft before they won a place in his father's service for valor and prowess in battle. Furthermore, although Artos, Robb, and Jon were wearing only light armor of brigandines, pauldrons, vambraces, and gauntlets, their guards were in full armor and the heaviest armor the sparrows had was the padded jerkin their spokesman had been wearing.

Under such circumstances, the fact that the sparrows outnumbered them two to one wasn't as helpful as it might otherwise have been.

A sparrow came at Artos with an overhand blow of his axe. Artos took the blade of his sword in his left hand while keeping his right hand on the hilt of the bastard sword, caught the haftof the axe on the blade of his sword, twisted both weapons down and to the right, and then rammed the point of his sword into the bridge of the sparrow's nose, punching through cartilage and bone into the man's brain. By the time he withdrew the blade to let the sparrow fall to ground, twitching, Robb had left one sparrow dead and another trying desperately to cram his eyes back into his head after a lateral slash laid his face open. On his other side, Jon had left one man bleeding to death from a long slash up his inner thigh and as Artos watched he blocked a sparrow's descending club by severing the man's hand at the wrist and then beheaded the man on the backstroke. Another sparrow came at Artos, shrieking the name of the Warrior and plying his club frantically, but Artos gave ground and defended until the man swept his club up over his head for a blow that likely would have felled an ox and then lunged forward to bind the man's club high with his sword and in the same motion draw his Thenn knife and ram it into the man's diaphragm. The Thenn knife was essentially a twelve-inch cleaver with a clip point that was wickedly sharp, derived from a blade design endemic among the free folk and popularized by the Special Service Regiment. By the time the sparrow slid off the knife, struggling to breathe with his lungs' primary muscle not working, the Guardsmen and the two Stormlander hedge knights had cut down the last of the sparrows. The man whose eyes Robb had slashed out was still on the ground desperately scrabbling at his ruined face when Robb turned back to him and finished him off with a thrust to the neck.

Artos walked up to the spokesman, who was apparently shocked into immobility by the carnage that had been his troop, and wiped the blood off his sword and Thenn knife on the shoulders of the man's jerkin. "Tell His Holiness," he said pleasantly as he sheathed his blades, "that he is always welcome at the Maidenvault." He paused for a moment and then, in his best imitation of his father's drill-square voice, roared "MOVE!" into the man's face, startling him into headlong flight. He turned back to his companions. "Tomard," he called to one of the Guardsmen, detaching a small purse from his belt and tossing it to him, "This for Master Mott, with my apologies for the mess and my advice that he either put his forge in a state of defense or evacuate. The sparrows will be back for revenge like as not. Tell him that he and his can call on House Stark for aid whenever they need it, in my name." The sparrows did not take kindly to being balked; one merchant who had told a party of sparrows where to take their attitude had found his warehouse pillaged and his employees attacked in the streets. Tobho Mott was not a friend of House Stark, per se, any more than he was a friend of any of his other customers, but he was a good man and Artos had left trouble on his doorstep. That account needed to be balanced. "Everyone else, mount up and back to the Red Keep at the trot once Tomard's done. We have to take this to the King before the High Septon does." Aegon was more devout a worshipper of the Seven than Artos could have wished for in this situation, but if Aegon had friends, Artos was one of them and the laws of the Realm and of the gods made allowances for self-defense. The trick would be to get his side of the story in first and emphasize that he had abided by the law until the sparrows attacked.

Tomard ducked into the shop as the others tightened their saddle girths and swung into the saddle, and then came hustling out to join them. By the time everyone was in the saddle, barely five minutes had passed since the first blow was struck and the blood of the sparrows was still fresh. Artos looked over his brother, cousin, and their guards a final time and then waved his hand in a circle. "Move out."

 **Author note: So that happened. This is the last chapter I have ready to go, so it may be a while before the next one comes out. Your patience is much appreciated.**

 **Happy Halloween, by the way!**


	32. Chapter 32

**Author note: Before getting into this chapter, a word about where I'm getting my concept of the Faith of the Seven from. My current theological beliefs can be best described as 'shrug', but my family is Catholic, so that's where I'm getting most of the ideas for the theology and scriptural references in this chapter (Which has the side effect of being more or less true to canon, as GRRM has described the Faith as being essentially the medieval Catholic Church).**

 **Cheers!**

The High Sparrow's hands shook in anger as he reread the missive that had just come from the Red Keep.

 _From His Grace, Aegon, the Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Defender of the Faiths, to His Holiness the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven, greetings._

 _It has been brought to our attention that certain sparrows, displaying prominently the insignia of the Faith, did earlier this day accost our trusty and well-beloved peer Artos Stark, his brother Robb Stark, and their cousin Jon Baratheon, along with their retainers, while they were engaged in their lawful business in the city. Upon accosting the aforesaid peers and their men, the aforesaid sparrows summoned Artos Stark into Your Holiness's presence and, upon being refused, threatened to constrain him by force to go with them to Your Holiness. Upon further refusal, the sparrows resorted to violence, intending to abduct the aforesaid peers and kill their retainers. The aforesaid peers and their men defended themselves, and although by the grace of the gods none of them were injured, they nonetheless slew some eighteen sparrows, leaving alive only the one who acted as their spokesman._

 _It being known to us that the sparrows acknowledge no leader but Your Holiness and knowing further by the testimony of the aforesaid peers and their men that the aforesaid sparrows acted under the color of the Faith's authority, which is to say, Your Holiness's authority, we consider that we have sufficient evidence to surmise that the aforesaid sparrows were acting under orders given them by Your Holiness. We therefore request and require that you present yourself before our court within no more than seven days to answer for this offense against our Peace and the dignity of our Realm. We do solemnly swear that Your Holiness shall have safe passage to and from the Red Keep and Maegor's Holdfast, and further assure Your Holiness that no harm shall come to your person while you are our guest. Your Holiness will find enclosed the writ of summons given under the hand and seal of our Master of Laws, Lord Tarly._

 _Given under our hand and seal this fourth day of the third month of the three hundred and second year after the Conquest._

The High Septon's vision wavered red for a long moment. The gall of this _boy_ , to summon him to court like some common felon . . . He closed his eyes and mentally recited the credo until he felt his jaw muscles unclench. _Anger is a fine servant but a poor master,_ he reminded himself, _and you have other things to attend to._ "Bring Brother Mikal to me," he said softly, rerolling the letter from the King as one of the sparrows scurried away. The High Septon knelt in contemplation before the altar of the Father and remained there as the sparrow returned with Brother Mikal in tow. Mikal had yet to change out of his bloodstained jerkin, having gone to the Stranger's transept immediately after making his report to Brother Rolyn, who was the watch leader. The High Septon did not need to look up to know that Mikal's eyes would be haunted by the destruction of his troop. "What were my orders, Brother Mikal?" he asked softly.

"To summon the pagan Artos Stark to the Great Sept and escort him into your presence, Your Holiness," Mikal said dully.

"To summon and escort," the High Septon said musingly. "From what part of those orders did you derive permission to assault Stark and his compatriots in the street?"

"Your Holiness, the pagan was obstinate," Mikal said, a sullen tone entering his voice. "He denied your authority to summon him and his brother insulted us. It was not to be borne!"

"The gods bear worse every day, Brother Mikal," the High Septon said, cutting off Mikal's slowly rising voice. "They look down on this world with its violence, its greed, its lust, and its pride, and still they remain to show us the way, as patient as when they first came to us. Can you bear to do less? 'Be ye perfect,' the Book of the Father commands us."

Mikal wavered for a second and then fell to his knees. "I have erred," he said brokenly, as if he would weep if he still had tears to do so. "The blood of my men is on my head and I cannot rid myself of it."

The High Septon nodded. "So you have and so it is," he agreed. "This penance I set you; you shall keep vigil before the Stranger's altar for eighteen nights, and there you shall pray for each of your men, by name, that they might find peace in the light of the gods. And while you pray for them, you shall pray also for their families, who have lost their son, their brother, their husband, their father by your pride. When your term of vigil is ended, then you shall be returned to the light of the gods."

Mikal nodded, and then immediately rose and went to the Stranger's altar. The High Septon crooked a finger at the sparrow who had escorted Mikal. "See that he takes food and drink at least twice a day and that he sleeps at least a few hours," he instructed. "He cannot very well make his contrition if he kills himself by self-neglect." Mikal was a proud man, and hasty at times, but he had it in him to be a veritable lion of the Faith. He reminded the High Septon of himself, at a young age, before he had turned to the gods and taken up the life of a wandering septon. That had been a hard life, travelling in all weathers from village to village, risking exposure, wild animals, and bandits, but he knew himself a much better man for having taken it. Thus did the gods forge their instruments in this world.

A rustle nearby made him look up and he saw two of the most senior sparrows; Wat of Dosk, lean, wiry, and nervous, and Tom of Bitterbridge, at five feet eleven a small giant and with the musculature to match his inches. Both former farmers, they had risen to command among the sparrows by demonstrated ability. Wat had led twenty men from Dosk, Little Dosk, and Brandybottom to King's Landing without losing even one of them, while Tom had taken a fractious crew of ex-farmers and alley-runners from Bitterbridge and turned them into a disciplined troop within a fortnight. They were among the best the sparrows had in terms of leadership. "Good evening, brothers," the High Septon said warmly. "Come, pray with me."

Both men knelt and signed themselves with the seven-pointed star and the three of them prayed a moment in silence. It was Wat who broke the silence, as the High Septon had expected; Wat was not a patient man by nature. "Your Holiness, the lads have been talking ever since Mikal got back," he said. "They say that the time for words is past and it is time for iron and fire."

The High Septon shook his head. "'To everything there is a time and a season,'" he quoted. "But it is not yet the time for open battle. The men will have to wait a while longer yet."

"Even when you are brought before the king in chains?" Tom rumbled questioningly. "The men would die before they allowed that."

"There is no need to speak of chains," the High Septon answered in tones of mild reproof. "The king has sworn to my safe conduct, and I trust the gods to keep me safe in the midst of my enemies. And even if I died it would be all to the better. How many men do we have within the city, Brother Wat?"

"Six and a half thousand, at last count," Wat replied. Despite the instant answer, there was still an undercurrent of awe in his voice. In Dosk there had not been anywhere near that many of anything worth counting.

"And that is how many came at the call of a man who, despite wearing the crystal crown, was as corrupt and venal as a man could be, almost," the High Septon said. "I hope to avoid the sin of pride, but I cannot help but feel that, were I to die for the sake of the gods and summon the Faithful to arms while doing so, that number would multiply many times."

"Why wait that long and take that risk, though?" asked Wat. "We have more armed men in the city, now, than anyone. Even the king. If Your Holiness gave the word, we could sweep the city clean and none could resist us."

"Brother Mikal thought as much," the High Septon answered, "and there he kneels as a result." He gestured towards the Stranger's altar, where Mikal knelt with head bowed. "His troop outnumbered the pagans and their compatriots two to one and they were all slain without giving the pagans as much as a flesh wound. We do not have the strength to challenge the pagans in open battle, especially not when they have the strength of the crown to bolster their ranks." _Fortunately, that need not always be the case,_ he thought to himself, remembering the letter that had come to him from Dragonstone a few days ago. The gods always found a way to give their servants the tools they needed, if their servants were willing to do the work. "Patience, brothers," he continued. "Patience but a while longer, and with the help of the gods our enemies will be delivered into our hands."

 **Author note: So there's the High Septon's reaction and a second-hand look at Aegon's reaction to the little skirmish that Artos and company had with the sparrows. Before moving on, a few things to clear up from the reviews.**

 **Firstly, regarding Jon marrying Lysa despite Elbert still being alive, my train of reasoning is as follows. Hoster needs to find Lysa a husband who can be relied on not to ask embarrassing questions regarding her lack of virginity (Lysa sleeping with Petyr still happened in this TL). Jon still has an heir, but there's a war on and Elbert has a habit of leading cavalry charges from the front, so he takes the view that it is better to have and not need than need and not have. There was a close call with Elbert at the Battle of Twinoak, but he managed to survive with an impressive facial scar, so Jon resigned himself to having a wife a fraction his age who was more or less surplus to requirements. Then little Robert came along and surprised everybody by surviving. Elbert is somewhat philosophical about being supplanted; Jon is eighty-three at this point so in all probability little Robert will need a regent and who better than his uncle? Way leads upon way, after all. Harrold Arryn, on the other hand, is less patient than his uncle.**

 **Secondly, regarding Cersei marrying Lyle Crakehall, Tywin arranged that marriage precisely because Lyle was a second son who could be induced to give up name and inheritance for being the father of the next Lord Lannister. Tywin further recognizes that convincing Aegon to release Jaime from the Kingsguard is unlikely (hence why he has invested so heavily in Joffrey and Tommen's upbringing) but hope springs eternal, as they say. At least this king isn't a lunatic like the last one was.**

 **Thirdly, regarding the unlikelihood of the Faith exploding onto the political scene like this, the Faith is just the most obvious ingredient in the explosive cocktail that is the sparrow's motivation. I said in the text that they likely wouldn't have been a problem if the Fat One hadn't panicked at the thought of being in the same city as the Winter Soldier and called the sparrows to defend the Great Sept. The sparrows came with the preconceived notion that the King was in the pocket of pagans and heretics, so when it got out that Septon Luceon was the King's favored candidate, they went into the conclave with the High Sparrow on their shoulders and clubs in their hands and demanded that he be elected. The Most Devout figured that there was nothing Aegon could do to them that the sparrows couldn't and the sparrows were in the room with them, so the High Sparrow was duly elected unanimously. No one in the Red Keep is happy about it, but it was presented as a fait accompli, so they had to grit their teeth and offer their congratulations.**

 **The sparrows, by the way, are NOT popular in King's Landing. The merchants and the guilds view them as unwashed hicks with no understanding of how the world actually works, while the blue-collar section of the population views them as a bunch of outsiders who are turning the city upside down for no good cause. Not that the sparrows care; aside from the Great Sept, King's Landing is everything they hate about the world, for the most part, and they're waiting for the High Sparrow to tell them to take the gloves off.**

 **Fourth and lastly, as to how Viserys has been getting away with treason for so long, Varys is good, but he's not omniscient. Furthermore, Viserys has been positively ruthless in his counter-intelligence efforts. Only he knows about the full details of the arrangement he had with the Tyroshi and the sounding-out he received from the Volantenes. Varys, for his part, has been prioritizing intelligence-gathering in Essos and especially Volantis over keeping an eye on Viserys. Viserys, after all, is effectively in internal exile on Dragonstone, with virtually no control over his supposed bannermen and very little access to ready funding or fighting men. He is, in fine, a minor threat compared to the Three Daughters before the war and Volantis since the war.**

 **Until next time!**


	33. Chapter 33

The great hall of the Red Keep was designed to be overbearing. An essential ingredient of kingship, or of leadership of any sort, was looking the part, hence why Aegon never appeared in public without being well-groomed and well-dressed. The great hall, being more than a hundred feet long with a twenty-five foot high ceiling, was certainly fit for the ruler of a continent, even before you got to the decorations.

The great dragon skulls still adorned the walls, of course, Meleys, Caraxes, Vhagar, Meraxes, and mighty Balerion, but the rest of the wall space was taken up with banners. Closer to the center of the hall were the banners of the Reach; the Tyrell rose most prominent among them, flanked by the beacon tower of the Hightowers, the fox-head of the Florents, the Redwyne grapes, the Tarly huntsman, and the oak leaves of the Oakhearts. Closer the throne were the banners of the Iron Islands; the Greyjoy kraken, the horn of the Goodbrothers, the Harlaw scythe, the bloody moon of the Wynches, and the skeletal hand of the Drumms most prominent. Closer still were the banners of the Westerlands. The Lannister lion was had pride of place, of course, but it was closely flanked by the Crakehall boar, the burning tree of the Marbrands, the Westerling shells, the Brax unicorn, and the badger of the Lyddens, among others. Closest to the throne, in no particular order, were the banners of the houses which had put Aegon on his throne. So the merman of the Manderlys hung next to the portcullis of the Yronwoods, the Stark direwolf hung between the Hunter arrows and the Bracken stallion, the crowned stag of the Baratheons hung next to the sun and spear of the Martells, and, in a draft, the flayed man of the Boltons brushed against the eagle of the Mallisters and the forked lighting of the Dondarrions. By any standards, it was an impressive display of the strength of the Realm.

Which was why Aegon was receiving the High Septon, not in the great hall, but in the Small Council chamber, with only the Small Council and two others in attendance. His Holiness, by all reports, was a clever man, if a blinkered one; a display of power like the great hall was really necessary only for those too dull to otherwise take a hint. And if the High Septon needed any reminding about the strength of the Iron Throne, the four Kingsguard in the room, and the three armored Northmen, would see to that.

Lord Commander Hightower and Ser Barristan Selmy were both old men now, but they were still hale and could hold their own against even Ser Jaime Lannister, who was also present, which made them among the most dangerous swordsmen in Westeros. The fourth Kingsguard present, Ser Arys Oakheart, was not quite as fearsome as Ser Jaime, but he was nonetheless a skilled bladesman, and loyal to the Throne. None of them were particularly happy about the fact that Ser Eddard Stark and his elder sons were present in full armor, but they understood the reasoning.

A servant opened the door and announced His Holiness, and Aegon rose from his chair to greet the High Septon. The voice of the gods on earth did not look the part, being clad in only an ankle-length tunic of white wool, but the simplicity of his dress did not detract from the gravity of his lined face or the implacability of his hard eyes. Those eyes looked around the room with scant favor for the lords seated around the table, although they softened somewhat when they turned to Septon Corwyn. When they got to Ser Eddard and his sons, however, the High Septon's gaze turned fairly poisonous, especially when he took in the fact that the three Northmen were in full armor. "I'm flattered that you think me so dangerous as to require armed men to subdue me," he said coldly, turning his gaze on Aegon, "but surely three Northmen in addition to your Kingsguard is a tad excessive, Your Grace?"

"I have sworn your safe-conduct, Your Holiness," Aegon replied, concealing his indignation. "Ser Eddard and his sons are here to make a point, if it must be made." The High Septon opened his mouth, but Aegon cut him off. "You have been summoned here," he said formally, "to answer for the breach of our Peace committed by men under your command, who did so at your instigation. How do you answer this charge?"

The High Septon flicked his hand to one side in a dismissive gesture. "An unfortunate misdeed committed by an overzealous subordinate," he said. "He is already making his penance."

"'An unfortunate misdeed'?" Ser Eddard asked in tones that were positively glacial. "Your men tried to kidnap my sons and my nephew and murder our men. Wars have started for less, Your Holiness, within living memory."

"I gave no such orders, Ser Eddard," the High Septon replied, his face twisting slightly as he gave the Northman the title of knighthood. "My orders to Brother Mikal were that he summon your son to me and escort him to the Great Sept."

"As I told your Brother Mikal, Your Holiness, you have no authority to summon me anywhere," Artos said flatly. "I am a freeborn citizen of the Realm and I cannot be bound or loosed by anyone save the King or one of his duly appointed judges."

Lord Tarly raised a finger. "That much, Your Holiness, I will confirm," he said in his harsh voice. "A free citizen of the Realm may travel freely throughout the Realm unhindered by any, unless he is constrained by a judge's order."

"Cannot I pass the time of day in conversation with those I choose?" the High Septon asked. "I but wished to speak with young Stark on certain matters of importance."

"It is our observation," Aegon said coolly, "that invitations of that nature are generally not accompanied by what amounts to two squads of light infantry." He did not dignify Robb Stark's sotto voce comment of " _very_ light infantry" with so much as a glance; some things just had to be ignored. "Lord Tarly, Grand Maester, as our experts of law, what do you believe a court would say to Artos' reaction to this 'invitation'."

"Any court in the Realm would find young Artos to be well within his rights, Your Grace," Tarly said promptly, with Pycelle nodding agreement. "The hostility of the sparrows to the North being well known, he could have reasonably believed that the sparrows meant him ill, and in their lack of a judicial warrant they had no legal ability to constrain him. And when the sparrows resorted to violence, young Artos defended himself, as was his right. No court in the Realm would prefer criminal charges against him, under such evidence."

The High Septon's self-control was visibly strained. "Are the instigators of heresy to be allowed to pass unchallenged then?" he ground out. "You all know as well as I that the Snowy Sept's errors are due entirely to the pollution of the Faith by the customs of the pagans. Is the Faith not allowed to defend itself?"

" _I_ am Defender of the Faiths, Your Holiness," Aegon said sharply, causing Artos and Robb to look at him askance; they had only ever seen him this angry when the ambassadors of the Three Daughters had bearded the dragon. "It is yours to determine the doctrines of the Faith and it is _mine_ to defend them. Mine and none other. It is also mine," he continued, overriding the High Septon's sudden look of fury, "to defend the faiths of _all_ my subjects, whether they worship the Seven, the Old Gods, the Drowned God, or the Lord of Light. I have reviewed the report of the commission sent to inspect the practices of the Snowy Sept, and I find nothing in them that threatens the peace, the welfare, or the security of the Realm. It is therefore my will that the Snowy Sept and those who follow its doctrines practice their faith in peace, harming and being harmed by none, and if any gives them harm," he drew his sword and laid it on the Small Council table, "here is my sword, which I pray may be the first that is drawn to defend them."

The High Septon opened and closed his mouth twice, his face blotchy with fury, before he mastered himself. "So that is the way of it," he said finally, his voice terribly calm. "If you are set upon this course, Your Grace, then upon your head be it. But have a care, Aegon son of Rhaegar, that the sins of your fathers are not visited upon you."

Jaime's snarl of "Is that a threat?!" and Artos's lupine growl of "You dare!" were partially drowned by the drawing of six blades as the Kingsguards, Artos, and Robb drew their swords, but Aegon flung his arms out wide. "Hold!" he shouted. "Lower your swords, for I will not be forsworn!" After a long moment, Hightower and Oakheart were the first to lower their blades, followed by Selmy and Lannister. Robb lowered his sword next, leaving only Artos with his sword at the ready. Eventually Artos sheathed his own sword, but not before levelling it at the High Septon with a meaningful glare. Aegon lowered his arms and gave the High Septon a cool stare. "We have sworn safe-conduct," he said levelly, "and our word is not wind, to be blown about by vagrant gusts. We will overlook, Your Holiness, the insult you have given us, but we will not continue to allow your followers to harass our subjects and set our law at defiance. We give you seven days to order the sparrows to leave the city, never to return except in pursuit of lawful business. We do not ask you to rescind the declaration of schism from the Snowy Sept, or to step down from your office, but if you do not order the sparrows to depart the city, then we shall order them to do so. Any who refuse to obey that order shall be considered rebels in arms against the Iron Throne, and will be treated as such. Good day, Your Holiness."

The High Septon looked like he wanted to kill everyone in the room using only the power of his mind, but he settled for nodding curtly and sweeping out of the room. Aegon stood and breathed for a moment until the reaction to the sudden drawing of swords settled into his bones and then he sheathed his sword and seated himself. "I believe, my lords, that the next order of business is certain intelligence that Lord Varys has received from the Disputed Lands. Lord Varys, enlighten us, if you please."

 **Author note: This scene got rather longer than intended, so I'm splitting it into two chapters to facilitate readability. The next chapter is the same meeting, with Varys giving his report and something else occurring as well.**


	34. Chapter 34

Varys bowed from his seat. "Your Grace, my lords, my little birds in the Disputed Lands have sung me songs of a great gathering of sellsword companies forming along the southern coast of the Disputed Lands, in the area claimed by Lys. The Golden Company is, of course, most prominent, but the Second Sons, the Windblown, the Long Lances, the Company of the Cat, and the Stormcrows have also come to the gathering, among others."

"How in the seven hells are they all still alive?" Tarly asked. "The Company of the Cat and the Windblown hate each other, and none of them trust each other any further than they can throw them."

"They appear to have sworn a truce for the duration of the gathering, my lord, with the Golden Company empowered to enforce the terms thereof," Varys answered. "But what concerns me, my lords, is that a bird of mine in Volantis sent me a song of a fleet of cogs putting out to sea with empty holds. That song reached me four days ago. Given the time it would have taken to travel from Volantis to my ears, that fleet may have reached the Disputed Lands by now."

"Perhaps sooner, with favorable winds," opined Stannis Baratheon. "At the least, they would have made Lys by now under any conditions but terrible ones, and while it may be winter, the Orange Shore and the waters around Lys are not usually stormy."

"So several of the largest and most powerful sellsword companies in the east are gathering on the coast, and a fleet of empty Volantene cogs may be in the area," Kevan Lannister mused. "I submit, Your Grace, that we may have some cause for concern."

"Quite," Aegon said. "My lord Stannis, have your ships in the Stepstones increase their alertness, and send word to Prince Oberyn in Tyrosh apprising him of the situation and bidding him be vigilant." How Stannis and Oberyn maintained their friendship only the gods knew, but Aegon did not argue that it seemed to produce results. They had successfully prosecuted the siege of Myr, for one, and beaten Randyll Tarly on the Wendwater during the Rebellion. "Ser Eddard, send ravens to Sunspear and Storm's End, warning them to be alert to a possible invasion." Prince Doran was bedridden these days, but his eldest child Princess Arianne was so far proving herself an able successor and one who took a keen interest in the security of her principality. And Robert Baratheon was still as fearsome as ever, while his wife Lyanna was his equal in vigor. Aegon could almost pity the man who tried to besiege Storm's End with Robert and Lyanna commanding the defense. "Any other business? No? Very well, then."

The Small Council members stood, bowed to Aegon, and gathered up any papers they had brought. Kevan Lannister invariably brought the most; the Treasury produced almost as much paper as it did gold, it seemed. Varys, on the other hand, only rarely brought any; the eunuch prided himself on the keenness of his memory. Eventually, as the others filed out, only Jon Arryn remained in the room. "Quite the display you put on for the High Septon, Your Grace," he commented. "I hope you realize that you have made an enemy of him."

"When the Faith has shed as much blood for the Realm as the North has, then they can prate about unseemly favor," Aegon replied, pouring himself a glass of lemon water from Stannis Baratheon's decanter. "Until then, I will be the judge of what the North is owed. Is there something you would like to discuss, my lord Hand?"

"I think I will retire within the next year, Your Grace," Jon Arryn said, looking unqualifiedly _old_ for the first time in Aegon's memory. "Such storms as these are too much for an old man to endure, and there are matters I must put in order in the Vale before I die."

"Regarding your succession?" Aegon asked, to which Jon Arryn gestured agreement. "You have an heir of your body, my lord, and while Robin is a boy still, he is at least as active a boy as he can be. I foresee little difficulty with your bannermen."

"It is not my bannermen I foresee being difficult," Jon Arryn said heavily, "but rather my grandnephew, young Harry. The boy was stung by the hornet of ambition at a young age, it seems, and Elbert writes that there are those in the Vale who agree with him that the heir to the Vale should be one who is undeniably fit for the position."

And where Robert Arryn was sickly, pale, and thin, Harrold Arryn was robust, vigorous, and strong. Aegon nodded. "I see," he said. "Whatever decision you make, my lord, know that it will have the full backing of the Iron Throne. Have you given thought to who you would like to see replace you as Hand?"

"Stannis Baratheon," Jon Arryn answered immediately. "He's able, loyal, diligent, and has close enough connections with the Royalists that they will not be able to object too much. Which leaves only one matter I would see settled before I depart Your Grace's service."

"My betrothal, I assume?" Aegon asked, to which his Hand nodded. "If you have found someone that I can marry without alienating either the Councilists or the Royalists, I await enlightenment."

"I have discussed the matter with Randyll Tarly and Ser Eddard, who have consulted with Lord Mace and Lord Brandon," Jon Arryn said promptly, "and they are in agreement that there is one course Your Grace might steer that would leave all parties satisfied. If Your Grace betroths your aunt Daenerys to young Artos, the Starks would have no objection to your wedding Margaery Tyrell."

Aegon paused in raising his glass, lowering it as his mind raced. _It would nicely balance the factions_ , he conceded, _while leaving the Royalists assured that the Starks are still too distant from the throne to press the claim they would gain thereby._ For a son of a cadet branch to press a claim through another cadet branch would strain the bounds of inheritance law to the breaking point, even without the special provision that the Iron Throne could not pass through the female line; getting that accepted in Rhaenys' case had used up much of his mother's family's political capital at the Great Council of 284. _That being said . . ._ "And what does Tywin Lannister think of this?" he asked.

Jon Arryn shrugged. "Tywin Lannister sat out the Rebellion, he can sit out the division of the fruits thereof," he said placidly. "For what it's worth, Kevan has indicated that Tywin's ambitions at this point do not encompass the Iron Throne as much as ensuring a smooth transition of power from himself to his eldest grandson when the time comes."

"Which I assume will likely leave me a very pretty mess to sort out when it finally arrives," Aegon commented tartly. Lyle Crakehall was unlikely to take kindly to being passed over like that, even if it was in favor of his own son, and Tyrion would almost certainly press his own claim as fiercely as he could. The Lannisters were possessed of a well-equipped, loyal, and capable army, but armies could only do so much for so long before they were exhausted. He swirled the lemon water in his glass. "There is another reason I have been reluctant to marry," he confessed slowly. "The High Septon touched upon it, just now."

"Ah," said Jon Arryn, a look of dawning comprehension on his face, "that does explain a lot." He paused for a moment, bowing his head upon his chest in thought. "Your Grace," he said finally, raising his head, "may I speak freely?" At Aegon's gesture of permission, he continued. "I have watched you grow from the infant you were to the man you have become and believe me when I tell you, you are not your father any more than you are your grandfather. Aerys would have had the High Septon arrested on the spot for that threat he made, and he would have burned him within the hour. And if any of the beauties we have at Court has been unable to turn your head in all these years, I doubt you will find any to induce you to forget your marriage vows. I have every confidence that you have nothing to fear from the Targaryen madness, Your Grace, and I say that as one that has made a study of it, over the years. And if Your Grace needs further convincing," he went on, fixing Aegon with an aquiline stare, "I would remind you that it is your positive duty to produce a legitimate heir of your body, for the good of the Realm. Whatever was decided at the Great Council of 284, there are those who will deny that any child of Rhaenys or Daenerys may claim the Throne. Far better for the peace of the Realm that that argument be stifled before it arises."

Aegon sat, hope and fear tearing at each other in his heart, for a long moment. _Jon Arryn is convinced that there is no taint in me,_ he thought wildly. _From Ser Gerold or Ser Jaime I might dismiss it as the flattery of a servant for his master, but from Jon Arryn . . ._ Aegon could not remember a time when his Hand had not loomed over his life like a guarding tower. Insofar as the concept of _grandfather_ meant anything to him, it wore Jon Arryn's face. _If he believes that I am free of it . . ._ Eventually he shook himself. "My lord Hand," he said formally. "Inform Lord Tyrell and Lord Stark, through their representatives, that we accept this compromise, for the good of the Realm." _And as thou pleasest, thou gods, continue to show your mercy to me and mine, for I cast myself and my Realm upon it._

 **Author note: So that's the next round of high-level marriages in King's Landing set up. One more chapter, and that will be it for this uploading spree.**


	35. Chapter 35

Six days after the High Septon met with the King, the High Septon sent word to the King that he wished to speak with him at the Great Sept of Baelor and the next day the King went forth from the Red Keep. He went armed, of course, but otherwise his dress was entirely peaceable; shirt, trousers, tunic, boots, and gloves, all in black with the red three-headed dragon badge of his house on his breast and the simple gold circlet that served as his crown on his head.

His escort, on the other hand, was not nearly so pacifically dressed. On either side of him rode two Kingsguard knights in full plate armor, the famous white cloaks thrown back over their right shoulders so as not to impede their sword arms. With them rode the Master of Laws, the Master of Coin, the Lord Marshal, and a clutch of young gentlemen of the Court (sons and nephews of courtiers or lords and knights who were visiting the Court) who had accepted the King's invitation to ride with him. All of these were also in full armor; the Lord Marshal's helm, cleverly engraved and etched so that it seemed to be the face of a snarling wolf, aroused particular comment. With them also was a figure wrapped in a cloak that covered him from head to foot, eliciting all manner of rumors. An eavesdropper, listening to the crowd, would have heard men and women swear that the cloaked man was a wizard from the east, a shadowbinder from far Asshai, a demon from beyond the Wall, perhaps even the notorious Winter Soldier. Who could say for sure when none could clearly see his face?

Behind the King and his bodyguards came the first of the small army that had been mustered in King's Landing. The Royal Corps of Guides had the lead, four companies of horse and six of foot, their jacks and open-faced sallet helms augmented with pauldrons, vambraces, greaves, and gorgets, all of dulled steel that wouldn't reflect the light. The horsemen of the Guides carried light lances in addition to their swords, and one troop of Dornishmen had short horseman's bows sheathed at the cantle of their saddles. The infantry of the Guides carried longbows and short swords and bucklers, or in place of the sword carried a war hammer or a hand-axe. A keen-eyed observer may have noticed the second son of the Lord Marshal at the head of his troop, but he would have had to look closely; people who are dressed all in a certain way all tend to look alike at a distance.

Behind the Guides came the Royal Marines. These men, in their brigandines, kettle helmets, vambraces, greaves, and pauldrons, gave an impression of armored beetles as they marched down the Street of Dragons with their short glaives at shoulder arms and their cutlasses hanging at their belts. There was substantial applause for these men as they marched by; the Royal Marines had been at the forefront of the taking of the Stepstones and the regimental banner carried before them proudly bore the battle honors _Bloodstone, Grey Gallows,_ and _Stepstones 299-300_.

Behind the Marines was the contingent from the City Watch, hard-handed and harder-eyed men who in the usual course of events patrolled Flea Bottom. Their helmets were battered, their ring-mail scored with the bright lines left by knife strokes, and their gold cloaks were stained and slightly ragged, but the pale light of the winter sun glinted off the edges of the spear heads, the hilts of their short swords and weighted batons were shiny with use, and they did not march as much as swagger down the street. They were proud men, but a man who patrolled the labyrinth of Flea Bottom earned such pride quickly, or he just as quickly earned a plot of land six feet long by three feet wide by six feet deep, courtesy of His Grace's Government.

Last in the line of march came the King's Landing Regiment, which earned cheers from their neighbors on the sides of the street. These men, in their full-sleeved mail hauberks, nasal helmets, and greaves, were citizens of King's Landing who devoted four days a month and a sennight a year to training with spear, short sword, and buckler, ready for the call to stand with their neighbors and defend their city. Their presence in the column of soldiery marching behind the King made some of the more richly dressed men in the crowd smile slowly, as men who began to see an answer to a difficult riddle, and nod approvingly, while others, not so restrained by the perceived need to maintain a dignified presence, began to shout bloodthirsty suggestions.

When the King's cavalcade arrived before the Great Sept of Baelor, they found themselves presented with a great crowd of sparrows, all armed and drawn up by troops with banners depicting the red seven-pointed star in great profusion throughout. The King and his immediate retinue halted just inside the entrance to the plaza before the Great Sept and there they waited as the men behind them slowly shook themselves out of column of march and into line of battle. The two royal regiments were closest to the King, of course, the Guides infantry on his right and the Marines on his left while the City Watch was drawn up to the left of the Marines and the King's Landing Regiment fell in on the right of the Guides. The Guides cavalry waited behind the wall of infantry in line of companies, horse and rider eerily still.

As the last squad of infantrymen stamped to a halt, the Lord Marshal was seen to hold his hand out to his side, provoking a rippling shout of "GROOOOUND . . . ARMS!" from the underofficers that brought the butts of twenty-eight hundred spears and glaives thudding to the cobblestones. The young gentlemen of the Court who had accompanied the King dismounted and, at a command from the Lord Marshal, went to stand in front of the bowmen of the Guides in a loose line of steel figures, each at double arm's length from his neighbors so that they were close enough to support each other while still leaving each other room to ply their weapons and let the archers behind them shoot between them. Someone watching these young men closely would most likely have noticed two young men in particular, one wearing the direwolf of the Starks on his surcoat and the other the crowned stag of the Baratheons, who placed themselves in the center of the line; the deference the other young gentlemen showed them would almost certainly have marked them out as leaders. But they would have been overshadowed entirely by the man who threw off the cloak that had concealed his form from all eyes on the ride from the Red Keep to reveal a tall man with a left arm made of what could only be described as animate metal. The Winter Soldier, the Warrior Incarnate, the Iron Fist of the North, was at the King's side.

The fact that the Winter Soldier was, in fact, some distance from the King both then and later was disregarded by contemporary chroniclers and later commentators. Such people love nothing more than a powerful image to capture the audience's imagination and what image was more powerful, then or later, than the greatest warrior in the world standing next to the King like a hound ready to be unleashed?

When the last man in the King's little army was in his place, and while the sparrows were still murmuring among themselves at the appearance of what they considered a demon, the King gestured and a herald spurred his horse forward a length of the royal party, blew a fanfare on his trumpet, and bellowed, "The King has come! As the High Septon has asked, the King has come to the Great Sept of Baelor! The King has come and he asks what his subjects would have of him! The King has come!"

As the echoes of the herald's shout died away, the doors of the Great Sept swung open and a strange procession came out. At their head was the High Septon, in his habitual ankle-length tunic looking more like a sweeper than the mouthpiece of the gods, save for when one looked into his granite eyes. Behind him came the Most Devout, each carrying a lighted candle, while at the High Septon's side were two sparrows, one carrying a hand bell and the other carrying an open copy of the Seven-Pointed Star. The little procession came to the front of the crowd of sparrows, parting them like a coal parting snow, and halted, barely a stone's throw away from the royal party. The High Septon stood and looked at the King for a moment that seemed to stretch into infinity, and then spread his arms and began to speak.

He condemned the wickedness of the King, heaped scorn upon him as the patron of pagans and the accomplice of heretics, and concluded his screed with the assertion that such actions were a mortal offense against the gods. "Wherefore," he went on, his voice now thunderous, "in the name of the all-powerful Gods, the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger, in virtue of the power which has been given us of binding and loosing on earth and in the Seven Heavens, we deprive him and all his accomplices and all his abettors of the Light of the Seven, we separate him from the society of the Faith, we exclude him from the bosom of the Faith on earth and in the Heavens, we declare him excommunicated and anathematized and we judge him condemned to the fires of the Seven Hells with their Lord, his demons, and all the reprobate, so long as he will not burst the fetters of the Lord of the Seven Hells, do penance, and satisfy the Faith; we deliver him to the Lord of the Seven Hells to mortify his body, that his soul may be saved on the day of judgment."

At this the Most Devout shouted "So be it! So be it! So be it!" The High Septon then rang the bell held by the sparrow on his left, closed the copy of the Seven-Pointed Star held by the sparrow on his left, and the Most Devout snuffed out their candles by dropping them to the ground. The High Septon then folded his hands in his wide sleeves and gazed at the King with what an astute observer might call an air of expectation.

The reaction among the King's party was mixed. The Master of Coin was apparently shocked into immobility, his jaw hanging open as he stared at the High Septon. The Master of Laws was in an apparent fury, his eyes bulging as he dismounted and reached for the hilt of the greatsword strapped to his back, only to be stalled by a gesture from the King. The Lord Marshal seemed worried, looking at the King with a look of deep concern on his face. The King, by contrast, was apparently unmoved by the dramatic ceremony that had just taken place. Indeed, his only visible reaction throughout the High Septon's speech had been a nigh-imperceptible tightening of his jaw muscles. Now, the man who was only the second King on the Iron Throne to be excommunicated in the history of the Seven Kingdoms turned to his herald and nodded curtly.

The herald bowed low in the saddle, worked his mouth, spat, and blew another fanfare. "Hear ye, hear ye!" he roared, his voice shocking in the stunned silence that had settled on the plaza. "It is the command of His Grace, Aegon, the Sixth of His Name of House Targaryen, In the Sight of the Old Gods and the Light of the Seven, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Defender of the Faiths, that the combination of persons called the sparrows depart from King's Landing immediately! Any who disobey this command shall, by royal decree, be considered to be rebels in arms against the Iron Throne, and shall be treated as such! In the name of the King, all sparrows depart!"

The only answer from the sparrows was a torrent of abuse. They hurled insults, flourished their weapons, and chanted slogans against the King. If one could have collected all the spittle that the sparrows expectorated in that hour, wrote a noted satirist of the day, one could have floated a galley.

The King turned in the saddle to his Lord Marshal and voiced a command that, thanks to the uproar, could not be heard by any outside the King's immediate vicinity. This led to a great deal of artistic license being employed over the years, as men (and women, later) struggled to balance what was known of the King's nature (pious, humane, and well-mannered, all sources agree) against the spirit of the moment. Some got it closer than others, but who was closest is known only to the gods.

This, some persons of a precise turn of mind later remarked, was a pity, given the historical importance of that command.

 **Author note: Dun, dun, DUUUNNN! Explanations in the author's note of the next chapter. Thanks for reading all, and stay tuned!**


	36. Chapter 36

This is how the infantry of the Guides fight.

Before they took the King's silver, they were a great many things. Herdsmen from the Vale, woods-runners from the North, nomadic shepherds from Dorne, hill farmers from the Westerlands, villagers from the Dornish Marches, and foresters from the Riverlands, just to name a few. But what they all were, without exception, were good archers.

The bare minimum standard for military archers, as set down by the Department of War, is that the archer in question must be able to shoot ten arrows to the measured minute from a bow of fifty pounds draw-weight and hit a man-sized target at one hundred yards with seven of those ten arrows. That is the minimum. The average bowman of the Guides draws a hundred-pound bow and can place all eleven of his regulation arrows in a space the size of a man's splayed hand. Some, like Sergeant Anguy, can split a willow wand at fifty paces with a single arrow. They are the best archers in Westeros, which to them means that they are the best archers in the world.

When the war horns bell out _archers, engage the enemy_ , the Guides infantrymen instinctively fall into their shooting stances and pluck their first arrows from their arrow bags. Thirty inches long and a quarter pound in weight apiece, these arrows are, and tipped with broadheads, wickedly sharp metal triangles as wide at the base as a man's paired thumbs. They are usually used against game, but they work just as well against lightly armored men, and the heaviest armor the sparrows have are padded jerkins worn by a few of their officers. The rest are in shirtsleeves or, a few of them, naked to the waist.

"Nock and draw!" the underofficers roar, and the Guides infantrymen fit arrows to bowstrings and haul back on the cords until their string-fingers are tickling their ears. "Let the gray geese fly! Wholly together, loose!" The string-fingers roll off the bowstrings and a slight shock runs through each archer's arm as the arrows are launched on their way. After that there is no time for thought. There is simply the hand to the shaft, the shaft to the string, the string to the ear, and away she goes, again and again and again and again, until even an archer's troll-like shoulders ache with the effort.

The effect is nothing short of murderous. Six hundred archers, loosing eleven arrows a minute, yield an arrow-storm that averages six thousand, six hundred arrows a minute, or one hundred and ten arrows _every second_ , loosed at a largely unarmored enemy at what amounts to point-blank range. Some of the sparrows who are struck by that withering fire fall silently, either because brain trauma or the severing of the spinal cord produces more or less instant death, or because the arrow splits their vocal cords so that they cannot scream. The majority of the sparrows who are shot, however, scream loud and long as the broadheads slash through their bodies, leaving terrible wounds. Many of these bleed out in a minute or less, having had a major artery severed or a major organ ruined. Others, less fortunate for being shot in the belly, will die over the course of minutes, both from hemorrhage and from essentially being poisoned by the contents of their own bowels.

The sparrows waver, shocked by the sudden violence of the arrow-storm, but there are too many of them still unhurt after those first few seconds to be panicked into flight by the archers alone and so they charge. When they get close enough, then the archers will rely on their hand weapons, but until then, the bows continue to pluck their deadly song and fill the air with hissing death, although slower now and in more strictly defined lanes, because the lordlings in front of the Guides are standing up to receive the charge.

XXX

This is how the young gentlemen of King Aegon's Court fight.

They are the sons and nephews of the King's courtiers for the most part. The wealth that that fact implies means that they have access to some of the best training, armor, and weapons that money can buy. Each young man (and they are young, their average age is seventeen) standing in front of the Guides infantry is wearing at least some plate armor over a ring-mail hauberk and many of them are wearing full plate. For weapons they carry sword, axe, mace, and war hammer, in varying combination thereof, and they wield them like extensions of their own arms.

That is as it should be, because the overarching purpose of these men's lives is war. Some of them will inherit lordships or knight's manors, but they are expected to hold them by strength of arms as much as by force of law. And so from the age of seven, these men have trained, for hours every day, to become some of the finest slayers in the known world.

Some of them have seen action against the Three Daughters. Artos Stark would have been knighted there, had he followed the Seven, and Jon Baratheon also distinguished himself. For most, though, younger men like Lancel Lannister, this is their first taste of battle. So when the sparrow's charge hits them, they are so frightened that they do not have the wherewithal to think.

Fortunately for them, they don't need to think. The instincts that years of training have etched into their bone marrow take over and against an opponent like the sparrows, that is enough. Sword and axe cleave limbs and torsos, while mace and war hammer rise and fall, crushing bones and scattering brains like water. Artos Stark enhances an already good reputation as a fighting man when he kills six sparrows in as many blows; all bare-chested fanatics who had sworn death-oaths to show no mercy to the pagan Starks and who die screaming the Warrior's name. Next to him, Jon Baratheon stands like a steel tower, against which even champions of the sparrows, men like Pate Hammerhand and Tom of Bitterbridge, fling themselves in vain. When Tom of Bitterbridge tries his luck, Jon swings his war hammer up between the other man's legs and the resulting scream sears clean across the plaza. Down the line, Brienne of Tarth, the only woman in that line and who is with them only because she was waiting in the courtyard of the Red Keep armored and mounted and offered to prove her worthiness upon the body of any man who wished to gainsay her, writes the first chapter of her reputation in the blood of sparrows; the end of the fight finds her amid a pile of the slain two or even three deep in places.

The sparrows do their best, but they simply don't have the weight of metal to challenge the men-at-arms, and in those instances where danger does threaten, the archers of the Guides are barely three yards away and some of them have hoarded arrows against extremity. Lancel Lannister will later visit Redgrass Barracks to tell the colonel of the Guides that he owes his life to a Guides archer and so, if ever the Guides have need, they can call on him.

As strange as it may sound, the most terrible execution that day is not done by the young gentlemen of King Aegon's Court. That happens further down the line.

XXX

This is how the Royal Marines fight.

When the sparrow's charge gets close to them, they lunge forward, their glaives punching out in stop-thrusts aimed at either the face, to make the targeted sparrow flinch, or at the belly, in order for the blow to be assured of striking home. As that first lunge strikes home, the sparrow's charge stops dead in its tracks, stymied by discipline and weight of metal.

The sparrows are not given time to recollect themselves. In shipboard combat, he who hesitates dies and so the Marines push forward, their glaives working in an economical chop-stab-cut-thrust rhythm that chews through the sparrows like a saw through hardwood. As the sparrows fall, the Marines keep grinding forward, trampling the fallen underfoot to press the advantage. This is the style of fighting that has spread the fame and dread of the Marines from the Stepstones to the Volantene littoral and against the sparrows, it might as well be a meatgrinder. No prisoners are taken this day, by any of the contingents, but the Marines are especially ruthless. They have lived and died by virtue of that ruthlessness, because when boarding a hostile ship, there is no time for the chivalric conventions of surrender, there is only shock and fury, until one side is overwhelmed.

When the dead from this battle are tabulated, the Royal Marines will be credited with the most killed sparrows of any contingent, just edging out the Guides infantry. Oddly enough, they will not be considered the fiercest fighters that day. That honor belongs to their neighbors in the line.

XXX

This is how the King's Landing Regiment fights.

They have hated the sparrows from the moment they set foot in their city. These sanctimonious, uncouth _hicks_ dare to come into _their_ city and lecture _them_ on the proper way to live and honor the gods, as if _their_ shit didn't stink? Please. And then they started to flex their muscle by accosting men of means in the streets and upbraiding them for decadence and ungodliness, as if the gods didn't say in the Book of the Father, "Go forth and be prosperous." And as for ungodliness, what exactly is godly about setting a warehouse on fire, with the night watchman still in it, or setting upon a group of clerks and apprentices on their way home from a night on the Street of Silk and beating them half to death?

To the guildsmen, merchants, and apprentices that make up the King's Landing Regiment, the sparrows are an affront against the proper order of the world, and so they hate the sparrows with a passion that, thanks to their king's thoughtfulness, they now have a chance to unleash. And so when the sparrows charge, the King's Landing Regiment counter-charges, meeting the sparrows halfway with a rippling, thudding impact as the spears drive home, some impaling two sparrows at the same time, so forcefully are they driven home. Those who can drag their spears free and thrust again, while those who can't release their spears to draw short sword and buckler and lay about them in a fury.

They are amateurs, the men of the King's Landing Regiment, not professionals like the Guides or the Marines. They shout and curse as they drive their weapons home, swinging wildly with their short swords and punching with their bucklers. Against other opponents, their frenzy might result in heavy casualties, but the sparrows are even wilder than they are and have much less armor, and so the King's Landing Regiment cuts a bloody swathe. They take casualties, from axe and spiked club, but spear and short sword and buckler and seething hate leave a carpet of dead sparrows in the wake of the Regiment.

XXX

This is how the City Watch fights.

This battle is much like the sort of brawl they fight at least once a sennight in Flea Bottom, although the scale of the thing is new. These men live by their ability to win such brawls as this, quickly, efficiently, and brutally, so that when someone else thinks of trying their luck, they remember what happened to the last guy who tried conclusions with a Watchman and think twice.

As for specific techniques, these Watchmen have learned from the worst that Flea Bottom has to offer, and so all the dirty tricks of those winding alleys and run-down tenements are theirs to command. In addition to the regulation spear, short sword, and weighted baton, each Watchman has at least two daggers and many of them have sprung for plate reinforcements over the knuckles of their steer-hide gloves and over the toes of their boots. Against these, and with virtually no armor, the sparrows have no chance of victory.

To be sure, Watchmen go down, their helmets crushed by spiked clubs and the mail shredded by axes, but for every Watchman that falls, four of five sparrows die. The gold cloaks become spattered and eventually soaked with blood, but the Watchmen keep at it. These buggers came into their city and tried to take the law into their hands; to the Watch, this is a mortal insult.

And this is how the City Watch avenges its honor.

XXX

This is how the cavalry of the Guides fight.

When the sparrows recoil from the wall of infantry, repulsed by the murderous effect of heavy armor and heavy bows and heavy weapons and relentless training, the war horns bell out _cavalry, charge the enemy._ And so the four companies that make up the mounted component of the Guides knee their horses forward and through the infantry. They don't have much time to build up speed before impact, being so close, but with the sparrows so disheartened and the infantry on their heels to provide support, the trot they are able to attain is sufficient to break whatever cohesion the sparrows have left.

After that, it is a slaughter, with the cavalry hounding the sparrows through the gardens around the Great Sept and down the streets leading away. Some try to surrender, but cavalry in hot pursuit never take prisoners and so lance and sword are driven home. In any case, the king has given orders that any sparrow who refuses the command to depart King's Landing is a rebel in arms against the Throne and therefore an outlaw, to be killed on sight wherever found.

And so the cavalry slay and slay and slay, until the only sparrows left alive within the vicinity of the Great Sept are the ones barricaded within it.

XXX

King Aegon sits his horse and gazed upon the slaughter his men had wrought. The dead are thickest where the infantry had met them, of course, lying two or three or even four deep in places, but there are dead sparrows the length and breadth of the plaza. The rainbow pool is a lake of blood from the troop of sparrows that made their last stand in it and were cut to pieces by a squad of Marines, and the gardens, Aegon knows, will be a ruin of dead bodies from the cavalry pursuit.

Some of the sparrows will have got away, undoubtedly, but their power is broken and the news of it will be all over the city before three hours have passed. The hue and cry is already raised, judging by the shouting that Aegon can hear from the streets below, and the sparrows have not made any efforts at concealing their identities. If any sparrow within King's Landing makes it into the countryside, Aegon has half a mind to pardon the man on the spot and offer him a job. He could use men of such caliber.

The High Septon, however, is not among the slain. Aegon saw him and the Most Devout get hustled back into the Great Sept the minute the war horns sounded; someone among the sparrows must have recognized the call and been in a position to act. The doors of the Great Sept will no doubt be barricaded by now, and Aegon is loath to order a siege of the seat of the Faith.

Fortunately, he doesn't need to. He turns to the Winter Soldier, who has not moved from his side during the whole fight. "Ser Barnes," he says calmly, "secure the Great Sept, if you please."

Barnes salutes, replies "Yes, Your Grace," and walks forward. On the way, he borrows a round shield from a young nobleman and slips it onto his right arm, leaving his metal left arm free. He walks to one side of the main doors, pauses a moment, and then suddenly goes from a standing start to a dead run that terminates in a mighty leap that carries him through a window in a crash of shattering glass.

The noise of combat immediately rises from within the Great Sept, audible even at this distance. Aegon sits his horse calmly, carefully showing no emotion even as a sparrow comes flying out through a window on the other side of the building from the one Ser Barnes jumped in through; it would be unseemly to show amusement, after all.

Eventually the noise dies down, and several minutes later the main doors of the Great Sept open to reveal Ser Barnes, liberally spattered with blood, holding the High Septon by the collar of his tunic. Ser Barnes drags the High Septon the length of the plaza, comes to a halt before Aegon, and snaps off another salute. "Building secure, Your Grace," he says calmly, releasing the High Septon and pinning him on his knees by the simple expedient of standing on one of the other man's calves. "I believe you want this one."

Aegon looks down at the High Septon. "Tell me, Your Holiness," he asks, taking care to keep his voice completely level. "If the Seven are so set against me, what king would they prefer in my place?" At the High Septon's silence, he dismounts and draws his sword. "Hear now your sentence," he says formally. "You have committed treason against our royal person, conspired to usurp the power of justice in our Realm, and sought to levy war against your lawful King. Therefore do I, Aegon, the Sixth of that Name of House Targaryen, In the Sight of the Old Gods and the Light of the Seven, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Defender of the Faiths, do sentence you to die." At a nod, Bucky twists the High Septon's arm so that he is forced to bend his neck, and Aegon's sword rises and falls, and the High Septon's head rolls away.

Aegon cleans the blood off his sword with a handkerchief and tells Lord Commander Hightower to "Make arrangements for him to receive honorable burial. He was a brave man and sincere in his beliefs; we would have it said that we know how to honor such men, even when they are our enemies." He turns to the lords of his council who have followed him here and who are blood-splattered from joining the young gentlemen of his Court in standing before the infantry of the Guides. "Spread the word throughout our Realm," he commands, "that henceforward, the sparrows are rebels in arms against the Iron Throne and are to be suppressed by every means necessary. We denounce and attaint them, and name them outlaws, under penalty of death wherever found. This we declare, Aegon the Sixth of House Targaryen, King in Westeros."

His lords bow low.

 **Author's note: So yeah, that happened. Basically, the High Septon tried to overawe Aegon into knuckling under, failed, and got placed on the spot when Aegon told him to disperse the sparrows on pain of their being declared in rebellion. Backed into a corner, the High Septon decides he has no choice but to employ the Faith's nuclear option and excommunicates Aegon. Aegon, naturally, responds by crushing the sparrows in King's Landing like so many eggshells and executes the High Septon for being the arch-rebel that he essentially is. Now it's open season on the sparrows and Aegon can turn his attention to whatever is going on across the Narrow Sea.**

 **Some questions and comments to answer from the reviews.**

 **Guest: Why thank you. The position of the banners would be a point of contention if it weren't randomized within each bloc. The only real distinction is that the lords paramount get the largest ones.**

 **Marcus Galen Sands: The High Septon wasn't given the chance to be canny. Ideally, he would have spun this arc out for at least another month or two (for reasons that shall become clear later), but Aegon forced his hand. He was hoping that the public excommunication would either break Aegon's resolve or else shake Aegon's control over his army. On the one hand, he underestimated the strength of military discipline and how deeply the sparrows were hated in King's Landing. On the other hand, he failed to ask himself one question; "What does Aegon Targaryen** ** _look_** **like? Does he** ** _look_** **like a** ** _bitch_** **?"**

 **Naruto9tail: Good things come to those who wait. Currently, I have no plans to introduce the White Walkers into the story, largely because magic is still dormant ITTL. The dragons are still officially extinct, for one thing (there are some sightings around Valyria-that-was, but until someone sends a major expedition to Valyria that returns alive and sane, Valyria-that-was will be that area on the map marked** ** _Here be Monsters,_** **along with Sothoryos).**

 **Guest: The Most Devout weren't given a choice in the matter. The High Septon's been running the Faith in King's Landing basically by fiat since he was elected, courtesy of several thousand armed followers. The Most Devout aren't that used to situations calling for moral courage, being senior management in an essentially self-running business, and so they caved early.**

 **Guest: Wait and see, my friend. Wait and see.**

 **Thanks again for all the reviews and stay tuned! Cheers, all!**


	37. Chapter 37

**King's Landing**

Aegon sat in the High Septon's chair in the conclave chamber of the Most Devout, with the Most Devout seated in a circle before him. His sword was lying across his knees, unsheathed, and his Kingsguard knights were around him Ser Barnes had declared the building secured, but there was no sense in taking unnecessary chances. It also sent an important message to the Most Devout; the situation was still being governed by the rules of war.

"Your eminences, good day," he began. "Allow us first to say that we regret the necessity of this whole affair. We take no pleasure in the death of our subjects, even those in rebellion." He let a hint of a scowl harden his face. "That being the case, it is not we but you who are responsible for the government of the Faith. As such, the responsibility for this morning's unpleasantness rests on your heads as heavily as upon the former High Septon's." One of the septas, a white-haired woman with a wrinkled face like an axe blade, opened her mouth to speak, but a sudden glare from Aegon persuaded her otherwise. "It was your complacence," Aegon continued, "that allowed the High Septon to bring the sparrows into the city, and it was your cowardice that allowed the sparrows to elect their leader as High Septon when the old one died. Like the merchant and the priest, you saw the law and commonwealth of the kingdom that guards you and the city you reside in bleeding on the ground, and you passed on the other side out of fear." Aegon paused, and then snarled, " _You are worse than the sparrows were._ They at least had courage; you have none."

"Your Grace, this is unjust!" blurted out one of the septons. "We were surrounded by armed men and given the choice between the High Septon or the grave. What would you have done?"

"Died," Aegon said flatly, "as you should have done, rather than submit to cowardice." He plowed on, ignoring the septon's look of goggling shock. "We do not, your eminences, demand your resignations. This matter must be settled as quickly as possible and for that, we need you. But you will do as we command, henceforward, and our first command is that Septon Luceon be elected High Septon." He paused expectantly. Half a minute later, when no one had moved, he gripped the hilt of his sword and the vote was held swiftly. "Congratulations on your election, Your Holiness," he said politely. "For now, we have no other commands save this one," He glowered around the room. "You will toe the line as laid down by the Throne, or it will go hard for you. Let us be clear; we know you for what you are, and anytime we choose, we can serve you as we served the sparrows. Do _not_ give us cause to regret having spared you."

 **Highgarden**

"Well _I_ , for one, _don't_ see what young Aegon was supposed to do differently," Olenna Tyrell said tartly. "The man excommunicates him to his face, with an army behind him, and he should just, what? Turn around and walk away?"

"It's not that simple, Mother," Mace said wearily. This was the second day in a row they had had this argument. "You don't just declare war on the Faith."

"He wasn't declaring war on the Faith, he was putting down subjects in rebellion," Willas said musingly. "There is a world of difference between the two, Father, as I'm sure you understand."

 _Seven Hells,_ Mace thought sourly, _now my own son is growing thorns in his tongue._ "Of course I understand, boy," he said gruffly. "But the fact is that the High Septon is dead at the King's own hand. Even Maegor never went that far."

"Probably because Maegor was excommunicated in absentia, not in person, rather than any moral qualms," Olenna remarked. "Although I can see where the difficulty would arise, given the state of the Reach."

The Reach, all three of them knew, had four major centers of gravity. The first, of course, was Highgarden and its environs, but Highgarden was almost always restricted to the position of first among equals. The triangle defined by the upper Mander, the Blueburn, and the Cockleswhent was just as fertile as Highgarden, as were the lands along the Silverflood in the northern part of the Reach. And what the lands around Oldtown comparatively lacked in fertility, they made up for by the wealth of their commerce and the hardiness of their border populace, who yielded some of the finest infantry in southern Westeros.

To further complicate matters, Oldtown was home to the Starry Sept, second in primacy only to the Great Sept of Baelor, thus giving the Hightowers a religious cachet that the Tyrells could never hope to match.

"At least Lord Leyton is quiescent for now," Willas remarked. "What concern me are the reports from the Silverflood and the Upper Mander." He gestured at the map of the Reach hanging on the wall with his stick. "Lord Crane has sent word that a column of sparrows from the coastal lands are passing through his lands; reasonably law-abiding, he says, but nonetheless armed, organized, and of a belligerent mood. Lord Caswell reports no less than three such columns passing through his lands; apparently Lord Merryweather let them over the bridges unasked. He reports that they are law-abiding, for the most part, but still numerous, armed, and organized. A great many wandering septons are occupying officer's positions among them, apparently, although of the main leaders, all but two were laymen."

"Fools," Olenna said flatly. "Did they not hear that the sparrows are outlawed?"

"Whether they did or not may not be relevant," Willas said calmly. "It's somewhat difficult to enforce the law when you're outnumbered by five or six to one, even if the six are peasants with pitchforks."

"Then what are we paying the ordinance companies for, for all love?" Olenna said exasperatedly, turning to Mace. "You were the one who said, after the Rebellion, that House Tyrell was to support King Aegon in all things," she stated flatly. "How about it?"

Mace turned away from his mother and glared out the window. Half of him wanted to refuse to do anything out of frustration with his mother, while the other half wanted to call for his armor and his horse and lead the knights himself. As usual, he ended up opting to take a third solution. "Willas," he said finally, "tell Loras that he is to take five ordinance companies and ride to King's Landing, collecting the levies of our bannermen along the way. He is to offer his services and those of his men to King Aegon for the duration of the present crisis. And if he comes across any sparrows on the way to King's Landing, he is to disperse them by any means necessary." The quality of the levies would be radically varied, like as not, but five ordinance companies would give Loras a solid core to his army consisting of two hundred knights and men-at-arms, along with five hundred and fifty mounted spearmen and archers, all men raised from House Tyrell's own demesne lands and therefore both loyal and well-trained and equipped; Mace made a point of following the Department of War's regulations on what constituted an acceptable standard for fighting men. "Tell him he can take Renly with him if he wants," Mace continued, shrugging internally. There was something odd about his youngest son's relationship with the youngest Baratheon brother, but that was neither here nor there. Willas's inclinations were all entirely conventional in that regard, and in the event that Mace couldn't find a wife for his eldest (crippled) son, well at least Garlan was already married. "If the bannermen give him any guff, he is to react as he sees fit," Mace concluded. The odds that Loras would encounter outright defiance were slim, in Mace's estimation, but the news that Lord Merryweather had let the sparrows over the Blueburn unchallenged was cause for concern. Still, having your overlord's famous warrior son show up on your doorstep with more than seven hundred first-line troops could do wonders for one's perspective; there was a reason the Florents hadn't given Highgarden any trouble recently.

Willas nodded deeply and stood up, limping out with the aid of his stick. Olenna sniffed in what Mace recognized as _grudging-approval_ and followed, Arryk and Erryk lending her their arms.

 **Deep Den**

Joffrey Lannister sat back in his chair, sipped at his wine, and did his best to look intimidating. This wasn't usually difficult, as he had inherited his father's build, but he was still a lad of six-and-ten trying to overawe men twice or thrice his age, which was a tall order in and of itself, without adding the sparrows to the mix.

 _Although two regiments of infantry and a regiment of horse do help quite a lot,_ he mused as he watched his uncle Tyrion chaffer with Lord Lydden. Three thousand of the best-trained and best-equipped warriors in the Seven Kingdoms added a lot of weight to what might otherwise be airy remarks or casual observations. The fact that it was known that they were here with the task of 'ensuring good order and the keeping of the King's Peace', which order had been given by Lord Tywin Lannister in person, merely enhanced the effect.

Grandfather Tywin had also pulled Joffrey aside, before the brigade was sent out. "I have had my eye on you from the day you were born, grandson," he had said with his eyes boring into Joffrey's. "Everything I have taught you will receive its first proof on this mission. Do well in this, and we will speak further." He had left unstated the potential consequences of failure, but Joffrey could well imagine what those might be; Tommen was only acceptable as a warrior, but he had all the wits a Lord of Casterly Rock could want, and one of the marks of a great lord was that he had people to break heads for him.

So Joffrey kept his mouth shut unless first addressed, let Uncle Tyrion do all the talking, and made sure that the brigade that Grandfather had assigned to them was up to snuff. So far, Grandfather would have no grounds to complain; the Paynes, the Stackspears, and the Doggets had all been suitably impressed by both Tyrion's persuasiveness and Joffrey's small army and sworn to obey Lord Tywin's orders regarding the sparrows, which were synonymous with the King's orders. The hillmen in the high country between Dog Hall and Deep Den had been somewhat more recalcitrant, but a few floggings for the more unruly and the summary destruction of one band of sparrows stupid enough to give battle had persuaded them of the wisdom of obeying the law of the Realm. Lord Lydden was, if Joffrey was any judge, also proving receptive to Uncle Tyrion's blend of flattery, persuasion, and veiled oblique threats, so they likely wouldn't be here more than another day or three. From here, they would turn south to have words with the Hamell's, the Bettley's, and the Foote's, before turning back west to talk to the Serret's, the Moreland's, the Ferren's, the Swyft's, and the Plumm's.

 _And any sparrows cross our path, so much the worse for them,_ Joffrey thought coldly. The sparrows were not even proper rebels, being god-mad peasants. Ridding the world of them was a service to the Realm. It also kept the men sharp, which was a good thing, as well as allowing them to supplement their pay with the possessions of the sparrows, as poor as those usually were. If only the northern Reacher lords were as punctilious in their duty to the Realm . . .

 **Dragonstone**

Viserys was only able to keep himself from curling his lip by dint of long practice. His army was finally here, having evaded detection by the Royal Fleet by dint of much careful sailing and some cannily placed false leads, and they were starting to have second thoughts.

Oh, Harry Strickland and his principal officers were still all for the idea of attacking King's Landing and the Golden Company was the main part of Viserys's force, but the other captains were at best urging caution and at worst questioning the possibility of carrying King's Landing by assault. Bloodbeard of the Company of the Cat was arguing for a siege, while the Tattered Prince favored a probing assault, to be swiftly reinforced if successful and abandoned if not. Brown Ben Plumm was arguing that the whole venture was 'unpracticable', to use his words, and favored trying again some other time.

 _As if there will be a better time than this_ , Viserys thought savagely. The sparrows were routed from King's Landing, to be sure, but they had risen again in the interior, with columns marching from all across the inner Reach. Tywin Lannister's army and Edmure Tully's Trident Guard were keeping the lid on the sparrows in the Westerlands and the Riverlands, but Viserys's latest intelligence was that some three to five thousand sparrows were marching on King's Landing to avenge the High Septon's blood. _Now is the time, now or never. I will never be this strong again._

"Enough," he said sharply, rising from his seat and cutting off Ben Plumm mid-phrase. "We sail for King's Landing in two days, to carry it by assault. Such is my command."

"And what gives you the right to command us to commit suicide?" Plumm said coldly. "The Winter Soldier is in King's Landing, or had you not heard?"

"The Winter Soldier is a man, as mortal as any other," Viserys snapped. "And as for who I am, Plumm, I am King." And with that he drew his belt dagger and whipped it across Plumm's throat, spraying him with blood as the other man fell to his knees and then to the floor, choking through his slashed windpipe. "Does anyone else wish to admit to cowardice?" Viserys asked, sweeping the other captains with a glare. "You, perhaps, Bloodbeard?"

Bloodbeard thumped his fist against the Painted Table. "No man calls me coward, King or no," he snarled. "I will lead the escalade myself, and gods damn me if I turn back in aught but victory."

"How about you, Harry Strickland, any second thoughts?" Viserys asked.

Homeless Harry shrugged. "'Our word is good as gold'," he said, quoting the Golden Company's motto. "As you keep faith with us, so shall we keep faith with you."

"What of you, Tattered Prince?" Viserys asked.

The Tattered Prince shrugged. "In for a sheep, in for a wolf," he said philosophically. "The Windblown are with you."

Gylo Rhegan of the Long Lances and the captains of the Stormcrows needed no encouragement, pledging their whole-heartedness as soon as Viserys turned to them. Viserys nodded. "Two days then," he said. "Prepare your men, and remind them of the rewards that await them when I am King in name as well as right."

 **Author note: So there's the situation post-sparrow squashing. The Westerlands are quiescent, thanks to Tywin Lannister sending his army out to make sure that no one got ideas, but the inner Reach is in turmoil. The sparrows are still an almost entirely peasant army, but their numbers are giving some lords second thoughts about gainsaying them; no one wants to be the guy who got his castle burned down around his ears. To that end, Mace Tyrell dispatches Loras, Renly, and about half of House Tyrell's personal military to restore order around the Upper Mander.**

 **Meanwhile, Viserys has assembled his army on Dragonstone and sufficiently motivated them to agree to an assault upon arriving at King's Landing. The sellsword captains already had plenty of motivation (Viserys essentially promised lordships all around and all the loot a mercenary could want, for a start) but the news that the expected fifth column had been stomped on and that the Winter Soldier was in the target city meant that Viserys had to engage in last-minute contract negotiations.**

 **Now, to respond to the reviews.**

 **Marcus Galen Sands: No problem.**

 **Naruto9tail: Fanatics can be difficult to beat in that it's difficult to convince them that they can't win, as a general rule, but the fact that they don't always act in a rational manner can be surprisingly helpful. And Aegon might have more to fear from the more pious lords except for two things. Firstly, he's been successful so far (a victorious war makes for a lot of political capital) and secondly, he acted quickly and decisively in putting down the sparrows. He may be excommunicated, but judging by the evidence thus far, opposing him is a losing proposition. And Bucky is getting into his late forties, but yes, his augments are vastly slowing his aging. Biologically, he's more on the order of late twenties to early thirties, and he'll likely stay there for a while yet. Of a certainty, his age isn't a factor in his martial skills, except for the experience he's gained.**

 **Guest: Organization is always a winner; it's why the Romans and the Mongols were so successful. And Aegon didn't want to have to deal with the circus that would arise from trying the High Sparrow for treason. Much less complicated for him to be summarily executed at the scene of the crime as the rebel he was.**

 **Guest: Yeah, Bucky is a walking Mook Horror Show for just about anyone except, maybe, the Cleganes or Big Bobby B. Anyone else more or less folds on the spot. I have no current inclination to add Melisandre, the White Walkers, or magic in general to the story. For one thing, what with dragons still being officially extinct (except for rumored, unconfirmed sightings around Valyria-that-was), magic is still very much dormant. For another, the magic in ASOIAF is somewhat too Lovecraftian for my style (I've never read Lovecraft, nor do I plan to, so I don't feel like I could properly capture the feel of it).**

 **Duesal Bladesinger: Aw, you'll make me blush.**

 **Guest: There are a few true believers among the Most Devout, but the High Sparrow's inclinations were right up their theological alley, so they were some of his more fervent supporters among the elite. That said, they've been reminded who holds the whip, so they're unlikely to cause any more trouble unless Aegon seriously blunders. And Bucky has brought up the idea of the printing press, but his knowledge base on that is too theoretical to be properly useful. For analogy, imagine that you're thrown back to Westeros. You know that automatic firearms, motorized vehicles, powered flight, etc. are all possible, but most likely you don't have the technical knowledge to build an example from scratch (please don't take it personally if you do, this is a hypothetical exercise). And even if you did have the technical knowledge, you likely wouldn't have the tools to build whatever-it-is, or the tools to build the tools, and likely a few more such iterations in the case of, say, a computer industry or a steamship or locomotive. Admittedly a printing press is relatively low tech, but it still requires durable movable type and durable ink to be properly effective. In addition to which, never underestimate the power of Not-Invented-Here Syndrome. Transcribing worked just fine for grandpa, so away with your printing press; wouldn't want to put all those scribes out of work, would you?**

 **Guest: It's not so much that Viserys did anything suggestive of the Targaryen madness, as much as the Council of Regents was not in the mood to take chances. Both the Royalists and the Councillists were adamant that there be** ** _no_** **obstacles between Aegon and the Throne, so when Viserys came of age they married him off to a suitable non-entity and packed him off to Dragonstone. And as for marrying Dany to Cregan (Brandon's eldest) instead of Artos, not if you think about it dynastically. Of Rickard Stark's children, only one married a fellow Northerner. Admittedly, marrying South has paid off quite handsomely for the North, but Brandon still needs to keep his bannermen happy, and one way to do that is by giving them this round of Stark marriages. Brandon is in talks with Wyman Manderly regarding marrying his daughter Wynafryd to Cregan, and Minisa (Brandon's elder daughter) is engaged to Domeric Bolton (who is still alive, as he has been too busy with his duties as an officer in the Dreadfort Horse and courting Minisa to seek out his rumored half-brother). In addition to which, there's already enough complication in the Targaryen family tree, what with the Tyrells getting Aegon's hand for Margaery and the Tully's marrying into the cadet branch that Rhaenys represents. Marrying Dany to Artos rewards the Starks for their services to the Realm while making sure that Dany's children will be unlikely to push for the Throne (Ser Eddard is well-respected, but he's not a powerful lord in his own right and is also one of the least political lords on the Small Council). Besides which, Artos and Dany are reasonably close already and Artos is one of Aegon's best friends, insofar as a king can have friends, so there's a personal motivation as well.**

 **Guest (guys, get your own accounts. It's quick, it's painless, and it keeps these from getting confusing): Brienne is actually attached to Stannis' retinue at the moment, but she does have her eye on a place in Lyanna's service. Her serving with Stannis is on the order of an internship. The sellswords are taking a massive gamble, but if they win, they get a whole continent to plunder, along with the promise of becoming landed gentry, which is the biggest reward your average sellsword can hope for. In addition to which, this is the best chance the Golden Company has had of returning home since the Blackfyres. They want their homes back** ** _badly._**

 **TetrisLame: Yeah, Baelor the Blessed was a prize idiot, but he had ridiculous good luck. Viserys is counting on some support from the remnants of the sparrows, but he's not betting the farm on them. That honor goes to the Golden Company.**

 **Stay tuned!**


	38. Chapter 38

**So this begins the next mini-arc in the story, the beginning of Viserys's Rebellion. Responses to recent reviews will be at the end of this series of chapters. Cheers, all!**

Davos leaped onto the dock as soon as the ship coasted to a stop alongside, leaving Matthos and the crew to tie up. From the dock he went straight one of the three places on the waterfront he never went, the Royal Marine post at the main gate of the Royal Naval Yard. Upon arrival, he reached down the collar of his jerkin and pulled out a token on a silver chain depicting a five-pointed star. That got him an audience with the duty officer, a scarred lieutenant who had seen service in the Stepstones if Davos was any judge. What he had to say to the duty officer got him sent to Redgrass Barracks with a note of introduction to the commanding officer of the Royal Marines, Colonel Jorran Snow. By great good fortune, Colonel Snow was in a meeting with his opposite number from the Guides, Colonel Donnel Dustin, as well as Colonel Barnes the Winter Soldier. An hour later, Davos and the three colonels were riding to the Red Keep as fast as their horses could carry them without trampling anybody, leaving Redgrass Barracks a seething hive of activity behind them. At the Red Keep they went to the Maidenvault, where they found Ser Eddard Stark the Lord Marshal. Ten minutes later, a runner was sent pelting through the halls with an urgent message for the King and the Small Council members.

XXX

"Ten-hut!" the duty officer of the Department of War office snapped as Aegon entered the room, prompting a flurry of motion as everyone in the room snapped to attention. The Department of War ran on somewhat looser etiquette than the Court did, with standing to attention and saluting serving as the catch-all gesture of respect. As with so many other things about the Department of War, it had been introduced by Colonel Barnes, who had caused no small amount of consternation when he had first explained the significance of 'saluting the rank, not the man.'

"As you were, gentlemen," Aegon said. "We are told there is an emergency, Ser Eddard?"

"Your Grace, ten minutes ago I received intelligence that a foreign fleet flying the banners of several sellsword companies was sighted off of Dragonstone," Ser Eddard said, his voice remarkably calm for delivering such a thunderbolt. "Master Davos here was the man to make the sighting, if Your Grace will hear his report."

"By all means, Master Davos, enlighten us," Aegon said, concealing the chill of shock that ran down his spine by focusing on the man who stepped forward and bowed low. A slight man with ordinary features spider-webbed by seaman's wrinkles, thinning brown hair and beard flecked with gray, and a slight build, there was nothing about him that was extraordinary except for his brown eyes, which were no less keen for being evidently nervous.

"Your Grace, m'lords," Davos said in a voice that could only have come from Flea Bottom, "yesterday I was sailing my ship, _Grey Lady,_ past Dragonstone when I noticed that there were much more sails in the harbor than usual. I steered closer to get a good look, and noticed that they were foreign ships; all heavy cogs, Volantene by the look of their rigging." Aegon and Ser Eddard glanced at each other. "They were flying banners, but they weren't lord's banners. At least, no lord I know of uses four ravens and crossed thunderbolts for a sigil, or two crossed lances over a horse's head." _The Stormcrows and the Long Lances_ , Aegon thought bleakly. _Damn._ "A galley came out to try and intercept us, but I turned away, piled on all sail, and came straight here" Davos, paused, licked his lips, and then concluded with "Er, end of report, Your Grace."

"Did you see any other banners, Master Davos?" Kevan Lannister asked.

"Just one, m'lord," Davos said, "But it wasn't a proper banner; didn't have a sigil. Just a sheet of cloth-of-gold." Davos's remark was met with a heavy silence; an unmarked sheet of cloth-of-gold was the banner of the Golden Company.

"Thank you, Master Davos," Aegon said after a long moment. "You have done us a great service this day. We will devise a suitable reward when this is over." He turned to his Small Council as Davos bowed again and backed away to the wall of the chamber. "Well, my lords," he said, injecting confidence into his voice, "it seems we have a potential invasion on our hands. Ser Eddard, we trust you have plans for such a contingency?"

"Your Grace, the Marines and the Guides are already alerted; they should be marching into the city within the hour." Eddard gestured at the map that had been unrolled over the table that showed central Westeros. "With your permission, I can send out ravens summoning Category One contingents from the Crownlands, the Riverlands, the Upper Mander, and the Stormlands within the hour, ordering a hasty mobilization and a best-speed march to King's Landing."

Aegon nodded. "So ordered," he commanded, prompting Ser Eddard to nod at a runner who wasted no time leaving the room. That would put the lords and their household men, as well as the Trident Guard and Robert Baratheon's Company of the Storm, on the march within hours at best and days at worst. "Do we have any knowledge of what strength we might be facing?"

"The Golden Company numbers ten thousand men on its own, Your Grace," said Ser Eddard. "The Long Lances can muster eight hundred riders, and the Stormcrows can field some five hundred horse. So we will be facing at least some eleven thousand men, and most likely more." And while the royal forces within King's Landing numbered some nine and a half thousand, around two thirds of those were men of the City Watch, who were medium infantry at best. At least the walls and gates were in good repair.

"Why Dragonstone?" Randyll Tarly asked thoughtfully, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "If they are coming here, why are they stopping at Dragonstone?"

"Securing a line of retreat, perhaps?" said Jason Mallister. "Gods know I wouldn't want a hostile fortress in my rear."

"On land, perhaps, but Dragonstone's an island," said Stannis Baratheon. "And we don't have ships on Dragonstone to trouble them with; any ships that aren't based here are based in Tyrosh. Is there anything on Dragonstone they might want?"

"Nothing," Varys said slowly, "except . . ." The eunuch frowned, his mind obviously racing, and then his face fell as if someone had kicked the props out from under him. "That cagey little bastard," he said softly, "I never even suspected." He rose from his chair, turned to Aegon, and fell to his knees. "Forgive me, Your Grace. I have been unaccountably blind."

"On what account, my lord?" Aegon asked, concealing a sudden spike of dread with an even tone. He had never, in all his years around Varys, seen the Spider so discomfited.

"Your Grace, sellswords are like merchants," Varys said heavily. "Their lives revolve around risk and reward. For them to take the risk of fighting, one must offer them a suitable reward. For them to take so great a risk as to attack the Iron Throne, they must be offered a very great reward. Not just money, but land and titles of nobility, aside from the plunder of a continent."

"But they can't be offered land or titles," Grand Maester Pycelle said reedily. "Such is only within the King's gift."

"And on Dragonstone they can have a king for the asking," Varys said woodenly. "Viserys, son of Aerys Targaryen."

Aegon's jaw ached from the effort of clamping down on the spurt of fury that coursed through his veins like wildfire. _Viserys,_ he growled in his mind, his hand clenching on the hilt of his sword, _that ungrateful, treacherous, back-stabbing little . . ._ He focused on the far wall and breathed until the tinge of red left the corners of his vision. _Stone,_ he reminded himself sternly, _you are stone and the troubles of the world are water rolling off of you, leaving you unmoved and unmovable. Stone, man._ "So then," he said at last, cutting through the susurrus of murmurs that greeted this latest revelation. "We can expect the levies of Dragonstone to stand against us as well."

"Not all of them, Your Grace," said Varys, still on his knees. "The narrow sea lords have never taken Viserys seriously; most of them don't even acknowledge his overlordship, these days. It was what led me to believe that Viserys could be safely ignored, and my attention and resources focused on the east."

"We see," Aegon said levelly, before flicking a hand at his Master of Whispers. "Do get up, Lord Varys, you will ruin your robes. In any case, we have more to worry about now than an understandable oversight. We too thought Viserys safely muzzled." _And he will be, by the gods, when this is done._ "Ser Eddard," he said, "place King's Landing in a state of defense. Let no effort be spared that time will allow. Lord Stannis, send out your swiftest ships and have them scout out Dragonstone and its approaches. We must know more of what we face. My lords, we have a great deal of work, so let us be about it. Master Davos, a word with you." As the Maidenvault began to hum like a beehive with rushing men, Aegon pulled Davos aside, where they were joined by Colonel Barnes. "What took you past Dragonstone, Master Davos?" Aegon asked.

Davos shrugged. "Carrying cargo, Your Grace," he said casually. "Dyes and manufactures from Braavos, spices and perfume from Pentos, and a few passengers picked up from both."

"Odd, for a merchant ship to be able to outrun a galley, even with good winds," Aegon remarked lightly. "Galleys are faster in a sprint."

Davos's face was a little too expressionless. "Luck and fair winds, Your Grace," he said calmly. "And by the look of the galley, she hadn't been careened for a while. You have to, every so often, or you get barnacles. You get barnacles, you don't get a good smooth run of water under the hull; slows you right down, that does."

"Sir," Colonel Barnes interjected, "I can vouch for Davos. He's one of the best sailors in the business."

"Is that so?" Aegon asked, raising an eyebrow at Davos, who stared back levelly. _Gods but I'd hate to play at cards against this man. He'd drain the Treasury._ Aegon did not make a habit of gambling, it being the sort of pastime that worked best in an air of easy informality, but he sometimes played piquet against his mother or sister, enough to make him respect his mother's indomitability. "If ever you tire of hauling cargo, Master Davos, call upon us. We can always find a use for a man of your evident talents." That was true as well as being a flattering dismissal; initiative, intelligence, and a finely tuned knowledge of when to run for it were fine assets in the game of shadows that Varys played, and Stannis could always find a place for an old sea-dog such as Davos evidently was.

Davos bowed low and showed himself out, moving with the rolling gait of a man who had spent a lifetime at sea. Aegon watched him go and then turned to Barnes. "Where exactly did you meet Davos, Colonel Barnes?" he asked off-handedly.

"Tyrosh, sir," Barnes said simply, making Aegon nod. That explained how Barnes had gotten a whole regiment onto Tyrosh undetected. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I have some work to do with the Guides."

"Carry on, Colonel," Aegon said, returning Bucky's salute and striding away himself. He, too, had work to do; his mother and the other Kingsguards would have to be informed that Viserys had turned traitor.


	39. Chapter 39

Viserys smiled carnivorously as he laid eyes on King's Landing for the first time since he had sailed away to Dragonstone three days after his marriage. It still smelled (fish, smoke, sweat, and excrement, though the excrement smell was less overpowering than it had been), but the smell was perfume to Viserys's nostrils. _My city,_ he thought, flexing his fingers on his sword hilt. _My city, with my throne, my crown, and my kingdom. All of it mine, mine by right of blood._ And soon by right of conquest as well, with one of the most powerful armies in the world at his back. The ten thousand men of the Golden Company formed the iron core of his force, but it was backed by half the sellswords and freeriders of the Free Cities. The eight hundred men of the Long Lances and the five hundred blades of the Stormcrows would fight as infantry today, what with their horses incapacitated by the long sea voyage. The two thousand men of the Windblown anchored the right flank, on the opposite side of the array from the three thousand-strong Company of the Cat. The Gallant Men, four hundred strong, and the three hundred spears of the Maiden's Men were on the Windblown's left and the Company of the Cat's right, respectively, linking them to the main body. The Second Sons would have formed the reserve, but they had commandeered their ships and sailed back to Essos after Viserys had killed their captain. _Their loss,_ Viserys thought savagely. _Once my throne is secure I'll teach them what happens to people who betray me._ Around Viserys himself were the Brave Companions, whom he had taken as his personal guard. Vargo Hoat was a vile man, but an able one, and Viserys knew he would have need of men who would not be restrained by the usual assortment of qualms.

 _Although if he does not fix that bloody lisp of his, I just might cut out his tongue and fix it for him,_ Viserys thought darkly. Hoat had been haranguing his men off and on since dawn, at least, and three hours later he was still at it, this time focusing on the rewards of the capital. "There it ith!" he roared, gesturing grandly. "The richetht thity in Wethteroth! Everything in it ith yourth! Every copper pieth, every wine-pot, every woman! Yourth for the taking! All you have to do ith go and get it!" It was all quite histrionic, to Viserys' thinking, but he let Hoat get on with it; the Brave Companions were not the sort of men who would suffer a fool to lead them, after all.

The fleet was slowing as the crews spilled the wind from their sails, now a hundred yards from the shore. They weren't pulling into the mouth of Blackwater Rush; Viserys was not stupid enough to try conclusions with Stannis Baratheon's fleet in such close quarters. Nor was he going to try and unload his men by longboats and so give Stannis time to try and sink half his army. Instead, he was going to run his ships onto the beaches north of the city and unload directly onto the shore. From there, his army would assemble as quickly as possible and march straight towards the city, aiming to take the Iron Gate or the Dragon Gate. Once one of those gates was forced, sacking the city should be a simple matter for more than seventeen thousand men.

XXX

Aegon watched meditatively as Viserys's army drew itself up outside the city. _The Windblown, the Gallant Men, the Long Lances, the Golden Company, the Stormcrows, the Maiden's Men, the Company of the Cat, and the Brave Companions, all on the same field,_ he mused, counting the banners. _That must be the biggest sellsword army in history._ They would be veterans, too, most of them. The learning curve tended to be very steep in mercenary work, but those who survived were invariably skilled, irregularly strong or fast, lucky, or some combination thereof.

Against which, Aegon had barely nine and a half thousand regulars and militia, augmented by several hundred citizens who had volunteered for the duration of the siege and had been given a jack, a crossbow, and thirty bolts apiece. Fortunately, geography was on their side.

King's Landing was a rough rectangle, one side of which curved down and then up to follow the coast. One side of that rectangle lay along the Blackwater Rush, while a second partially ran along the beach. That meant that they could be safely relegated to the Royal Fleet, which was out in force just beyond the estuary of the Blackwater. In any case, the enemy was here, before the northern section of the walls, so the southern and sea walls could be denuded of defenders and the west-facing wall lightly manned to provide a reserve. Here at the Iron Gate, the regular garrison of Watchmen was reinforced by a company of Guides archers and Ser Eddard Stark's personal company of Northern infantry. Ser Eddard himself was here, along with his sons Artos and Robb. At the Dragon Gate just down the wall there was also the usual Watch garrison, along with another company of Guides archers and a company of the King's Landing Regiment, under the command of Randyll Tarly. Between them on the wall were several dozen citizen crossbowmen stiffened with a clutch of the younger gentlemen of Aegon's Court, with Jon Baratheon in overall command.

A mounted herald galloped out from the sellsword lines carrying a white banner and came to a halt under the walls. "His Grace Viserys, the Third of His Name of the House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, commands the surrender of the city of King's Landing!" he bellowed up.

"Tell the fucking traitor he can go boil his head!" Aegon heard Jon Baratheon roar back. _Crude, but otherwise my sentiments exactly, cousin,_ Aegon thought to himself, concealing a smile as the men on the walls voiced their approval of Jon's exclamation, as well as adding some rather more colorful suggestions of what Viserys could do. The Baratheons were distant kin of the Targaryens, thanks to Rhaelle's marriage to Ormund in the reign of Aegon the Fifth, but Aegon cared little for the exact degree of kinship and so he regarded Jon as his cousin.

The enemy herald galloped back to his own lines and the sellswords began to roll forward. Aegon turned to Ser Eddard. "Ser Eddard, your men may fire when ready," he said casually, belying the turmoil in his innards. That was a rather large army out there after all.

Ser Eddard Stark bowed shortly before turning to his personal trumpeters and passing along the command. The belling notes were as familiar to Aegon as they were to his soldiers, thanks to his martial education; _engines, engage the enemy_.

"Target, front; infantry in the open!" yelled the sergeant in command of the engine nearest Aegon, a heavy springald. "Range, five hundred yards! Load roundshot!"

The springald's crew winched back the string of the springald, which was essentially a crossbow grown to giant size, until it clicked home behind the retaining nut. One man opened the shot locker near the engine, allowing another to grab the surprisingly small stone sphere that constituted a twelve-pound roundshot and pass it to the loader, who placed it on the firing trough and rolled it back until it came to rest against the leather pad that would propel it forward. "Roundshot loaded!" he yelled, stepping away.

"Clear!" yelled the corporal holding the lanyard which was connected to the pin that held the retaining nut still. The crew stepped back from the engine and held their hands up by their shoulders.

"Loose!" yelled the commanding sergeant, whose eye was still fixed to the Myrish lens.

"On the way!" yelled the corporal, who yanked on the lanyard, pulling the pin from the retaining nut and allowing the nut to spin freely. The arms of the springald snapped forward, propelling the roundshot down the firing trough and out the front of the engine towards the enemy faster than anything on earth except, perhaps, a falcon in full dive.

Each gate tower had such a heavy springald on either outer corner of the top floor, as well as other, lighter ones in the lower levels firing through large arrow slits. The gate towers also had a mangonel on a turntable on the top floor, each of which sent a basket full of small stones hurtling towards the enemy with a thudding boom as the throwing arm impacted against the stop-bar. No sooner had the engines spent their loads than the crews jumped forward to draw back string and throwing arm to reload.

The effect was fearsome. Aegon was grateful he wasn't looking through a Myrish lens as the projectiles struck home; a twelve-pound roundshot from a heavy springald could take off limbs and heads as easily as a greatsword, if much less cleanly, while the baskets of smaller stones hurled by the mangonels shattered open on impact to spray men with stones that, if they couldn't quite penetrate steel plate, could still break bones through the steel. What the stones, and stone fragments, did to lighter-armored men was better unthought-of.

The assault columns closed up over dead and dying men, ignored the screams of their comrades, and pressed on. The engines fired, and fired again, and again, wreaking death and destruction, and still the sellswords came on. They had marched through blood and guts before, most of them, and doubtless the new hires were drawing on the inspiration of the veterans who simply closed ranks and marched on. _Those are some very brave men,_ Aegon thought with grudging admiration as the Guides archers and citizen crossbowmen began to rain arrow and bolt on the enemy as they closed within three hundred yards, _it's a pity they have to serve a traitor like Viserys._

XXX

 _When I get my hands on those engine crews,_ Bloodbeard thought savagely, _I'll have their guts for bowstrings._ His company, his lovely Cats, had taken only moderate casualties so far, but it was hard to consider a casualty moderate when he stumbled against you blindly, his face a tattered ruin and his eyes sliced out of his head by whizzing stone fragments. Bloodbeard's visor had protected him from that, thank the gods, but many of his men had no such protection. _And as for those damned archers,_ he snarled to himself as the man next to him took a clothyard shaft through the throat that dropped him to the ground to choke his life out in bloody gouts, _we'll see how well they shoot with no string-fingers and no eyes._

The ladder-carriers had accelerated to a run as they came within two hundred yards, their feet pounding the ground as they sought to minimize the time they spent under the fire of those archers without being able to do anything about it. Bloodbeard himself was right behind one of the ladders; he meant to be the first one on that wall, to prove that Viserys had no right to question his bravery. Sellswords would do a lot for the right price, but if you really wanted to inspire one to great deeds, you questioned his courage in public. No one wanted to hire a mercenary with any mud on his record in that regard.

The company covered the last hundred yards at a run, their breath starting to come heavily as the weight of armor began to tell. But soon enough the ladders came up against the walls and rose, coming to rest just overtop the merlons. _Perfect,_ Bloodbeard thought as he rushed onto the ladder, _I'll have to give my compliments to the sappers for that._

The climb took a seeming eternity as he mechanically put one hand and one foot over the other, the occasional arrow glancing off his plate armor with a hammer-like impact. At last, his view through the vision-slit of his visor changed from rough wood and stone to a terrified-looking man with a crossbow, and Bloodbeard's fighting instincts kicked in. A sudden grab and yank stripped the man's crossbow out of his hands and as the man recoiled, Bloodbeard drove the butt of the man's crossbow back into his face, crumbling bone under the impact. A surge of motion brought him through the embrasure and he was standing on the wall with his longsword flowing into his hand and a crowd of enemies around him.

The next few moments were easy for a warrior like Bloodbeard, laying about him with his longsword to drive the enemy back or else lay the wreck of him at his feet. Against conscripted townies like these evidently were, a man of Bloodbeard's stature, in full plate and with a longsword in hand, was unstoppable.

Bloodbeard was laughing raucously with the pure joy of slaughter when his longsword suddenly clanged to a halt against another blade. Bloodbeard had just enough time to register that his blade had been stopped when something slammed against the crown of his helmet and staggered him. Backpedaling, he thrashed his sword in front of him to hold the enemy at bay and took his first look at the man who had stopped him cold.

Whoever he was, he was also in full plate, also wielding a longsword, and was wearing a white surcoat emblazoned with a grey direwolf quartered with a sword and falling star differenced with an upward-facing crescent. Bloodbeard snarled reflexively at highborn loons who felt the need to dress up for a fight and lunged forward. The other man parried his blow with shocking ease and his riposte would have skewered Bloodbeard through the eye if he hadn't bent his head on reflex. The thrust skidded off his helmet, but it still bore Bloodbeard back and the other man's follow-up cut struck sparks off of his visor. A thrust-kick slammed Bloodbeard back against the battlements and then a hammer-blow caught Bloodbeard under the bottom edge of his helmet and ripped it off. Bloodbeard lunged forward, dropping his sword to wrap his arms around the other man's body and get inside the reach of that terrible sword, but the other man had apparently learned the counter to that trick and he side-stepped, caught Bloodbeard's right arm between his sword-arm and his neck, spun in place to put the flat of his short-gripped sword against the back of Bloodbeard's neck, and guided him around and through the embrasure with a stout kick to his rear.

Bloodbeard's last thought before he fell forever was, _Hell's bells, who_ was _that loon?_

XXX

The Tattered Prince surveyed the walls dispassionately as his men went up the ladders. At sixty-two, he had no need to lead the escalade; in his line of work, the fact that he was still commanding a company at his age was sufficient to maintain his reputation. Let fools like Bloodbeard demonstrate the relative sizes of their balls and their brains by leading the charge. He was much more effective where he could see what was happening and give the appropriate orders.

In this case, the appropriate orders seemed to be the ones he had given on Dragonstone before sailing. _Probe the walls hard, and reinforce with everything if successful; if not, pull back and support the Golden Company_. Strickland was a cautious man by nature, and would doubtless be glad of the help.

And if the Golden Company's sector of the walls was anything like the Dragon Gate, he would need help. Whoever was commanding the defense certainly knew his business, as evidenced by the way that the men going up the ladders were met, not with archers or crossbowmen, but with armored infantry and buckets of boiling pitch. The Tattered Prince didn't twitch as the assault echelon was stymied on the ladders and cut to pieces as they showed their faces. Their deaths were regrettable, but these things were to be expected in war, especially when attacking a fortified city whose defenders were in a belligerent mood.

He signaled to his trumpeter and the harsh blatting of the man's instrument called the Windblown back from the walls, save for those who had been killed or too badly wounded to walk. Perhaps the Golden Company would have better luck. Or perhaps it was time to consider whether, to borrow poor old Plumm's turn of phrase, this whole situation was still practicable.

XXX

Bucky didn't like mercenaries. For one thing, they were often more poorly behaved than regular troops, not having much incentive to maintain discipline. For another thing, a man with a price could be bought by anyone, and Bucky didn't like people who couldn't be relied on.

These mercenaries, moreover, were trying to destroy something that Bucky had spent his life in this world working toward. If Viserys had his way, then the rule of law would be replaced by the rule of strength and everything Bucky had done to make Westeros strong enough to sustain a government that could protect its people would be destroyed.

And so when the assault wave of the Golden Company came up their ladders, Bucky was waiting for them with a battleax in his hand and murder in his heart. The men of the Golden Company who had been first up the ladders were nearly all knights, which in this context meant that they were seasoned, veteran killers. Against any other opponent, they would have had a good chance of succeeding.

Against the Winter Soldier, they didn't have a prayer.

Bucky's axe worked in deceptively lazy-looking circles as he walked down the wall, punctuated by sudden blows with his metal arm. Where his axe met an opponent, it sheared through armor to cleave the flesh beneath, or split helmet and skull together. Where his arm struck home, a knight of the Golden Company reeled back with a fist-sized dent in his helmet or his breastplate. Those struck so in the head would almost all die as their brains bled into their skulls. Those struck in the body invariably suffered broken ribs and were left easy prey for the young gentlemen of Aegon's Court who followed Bucky down the wall.

On the other end of the wall, by the Iron Gate, Aegon and his Kingsguard were fighting a clutch of Golden Company knights that had won a foothold on the wall. The contest was evidently bitterly fought; there was at least one white-cloaked figure lying in a pool of blood and several Golden Company knights were down. But there was a steady stream of reinforcements coming up the ladder and unless something happened, weight of numbers would tell.

Bucky's first action, on reaching the scene, was to parry a Golden Company knight's sword with the steel haft of his battleax and shove the man off the walkway to the pitilessly hard cobblestones thirty feet below. The next thirty seconds were a whirl of action and reaction too quick for conscious thought, but at the end of them, Bucky was standing next to Aegon and the wall was clear of Golden Company men, who were in retreat.

 _Although the losses among the three attacking companies were relatively small, in absolute terms, they were nonetheless significant. The death of Bloodbeard and many of his senior officers attacking the Iron Gate left a leadership void in the Company of the Cat that would only be settled after serious infighting. The loss of fifty knights and as many squires meant the loss of a full tenth of the Golden Company's elite, and the Golden Company's archers also suffered significant losses. The losses of the Windblown were low, thanks to the caution of the Tattered Prince, but they constituted some of the bravest and most enterprising soldiers of the company, men who would have been prime officer material if they had lived._

 _The failure of the attempted escalade led to Viserys's decision to prosecute a traditional siege, but the worst was yet to come for the sellsword army._

\- _Dragon against Dragon: the story of Aegon the Sixth, Viserys the Third, and the Greatest Mercenary Army in History,_ by Maester Humfrey, published 1787 AC.

 **Author note: So that's the first day of the Siege of King's Landing for you. Basically, Viserys tried to take the city by coup de main, learned the hard way why fortifications were so popular in medieval times (and still are today, in certain circumstances), and is stymied into a traditional siege.**

 **Now, on to the reviews!**

 **Roshane: Why thank you.**

 **darkstel: Uh, what? Not entirely sure what you mean here, mate.**

 **korrd: Aegon hasn't called the banners; Mace sent his forces into the Upper Mander country on his own accord, likewise with Tywin and Edmure. Of those three, only the Highgarden forces are close enough to provide anywhere near rapid reinforcement to the King's Landing area. Tywin's brigade under Joffrey and Tyrion is in the Westerlands and the Trident Guard is in the western Riverlands, at least two or three week's hard marching from King's Landing, and if they pushed that kind of pace, they likely wouldn't be able to fight very well on arriving. King's Landing will have to hold with it's own forces for the nonce.**

 **Naruto9tail: Yeah, Viserys has a pretty formidable army. That said, fortifications are one hell of a force multiplier and mercenaries do not usually make the best stormtroopers; you don't get paid extra for dying heroically, and dying pretty well limits your opportunities for enjoying your pay.**

 **Urban warfare is still not a standard discipline like it is today; the battle of the Great Sept was very much an outlier. Off the top of my head I can't think of any medieval attack on a fortified location where organized fighting didn't end once the walls were stormed; sure there was still quite a bit of bloodshed during the whole rape, pillage, and burn part, but it wasn't like Stalingrad or Aachen where armies fought house to house. Once the walls fell, it was basically game over in medieval times.**

 **Wait and see on the Vale.**

 **As for the White Walkers, Beyond-the-Wall is even more underpopulated than canon, what with the free folk moving south or getting killed by punitive expeditions, which makes for even spottier reporting of what's going on in the far north. Lack of evidence is not necessarily evidence of lack.**

 **Perseus12: Viserys isn't an idiot as much as he's very narrowly focused on the idea of regaining the Iron Throne. Makes for a lot of blind spots, including the one where he thinks his half-breed cousin is a pushover on account of being a half-breed.**

 **Guest: No worries.**

 **The Vale saw a fair bit more of the wealth from the trade boom than the interior Reach, so some of the initial resentment didn't arise. In addition to which, the fact that the Vale has to deal with a long-running insurgency in the form of the mountain clans has left the Vale's smallfolk with a somewhat more practical view of the world than the sparrows. Whether the Gods are seven separate gods or seven-in-one doesn't matter when barbarians are coming down the chimney.**

 **Joffrey's better attitude in this fic is largely due to Tywin being a very involved grandfather. When Tywin Lannister has charge of your socialization, you get properly socialized, especially if he's grooming you as his successor. As for Tyrion, he was in one of his "unwelcome-at-Court" phases and Tywin didn't want him knocking around Casterly Rock again so soon after he left, so he gave him a job where his evident gift for making friends might do some good. Tyrion is somewhat fond of his sister's children (as he was of Tommen and Myrcella, IOTL), but he's not enamored of the idea of being passed over. His real hatred, however, is reserved for Tywin and Cersei, in that order.**

 **So long as Viserys looks like a winning bet, the sellswords will back him. Let Viserys falter, however . . .**

 **Bucky's eligibility is . . . fluid. On the one hand, he's a famous name, the best warrior in the Seven Kingdoms, if not the world, and has impeccable connections at Court. On the other hand, he's not even a landed knight, or the Northern equivalent thereof, but a household retainer. The closest analogue to him in canon is, to my mind, Sandor Clegane, who you may have noticed is not exactly beating off marriage offers with a stick. Add to that his status as a boogeyman and his eligibility declines rapidly. That being said, he has been rumored to have a lover in the North and has been seen on the Street of Silk during regular business hours, so the rumors still fly.**

 **As for Brandon Stark, narrowly avoiding a very messy death tends to make you re-evaluate your life choices; he is a** ** _very_** **devoted husband these days. He does have a few bastards from his wild youth, but they are not relevant to the story; the closest any of them will get to a position of power is an NCO's billet in the Army of the North.**

 **Duesal Bladesinger: Aegon is in no mood to take any shit from the Faith. And with a small army in the city, he doesn't need to. There's a reason why Louis XIV had** ** _ultima ratio regum_** **(the last argument of kings) inscribed on his cannons.**

 **Mainalpha: I'm actually more of a Marvel fan; Superman just rubs me the wrong way. And if you're looking for a story that incorporates Pokémon, look up Jim Butcher's** ** _Furies of Calderon._**

 **roshane: Allow me to refer you to the author's note of chapter 28 for my reasons behind Bucky's relative absence from the story.**

 **Guest: That would be why Cersei, Lyle, and their children live at Casterly Rock. Tywin is not in the mood to tolerate foul-ups in his succession and his taking a leading role in his grandsons' upbringing is only part of that. At Casterly Rock, he can make sure that Cersei doesn't do anything stupid, hasty, or otherwise ill-advised.**

 **Cheers, all! Thanks for reading, happy Thanksgiving, and stay tuned!**


	40. Chapter 40

Bucky strolled into the sellsword camp as easily as if he were strolling into a camp of the Special Service Regiment. With his metal arm concealed under tunic and cloak, and the hood of his cloak drawn up over his head, and his tall frame bent under an obviously heavy pack, he could have been a dogsbody for any of the companies encamped before King's Landing.

Admittedly he had had to get past the sentries first, but a few minutes observation had revealed a hole in their rounds and a few minutes more had taken Bucky straight through it. He shook his head despairingly; was it too much to ask that his enemies be competent enough to make this sort of thing at least somewhat difficult for him?

Bucky wasn't insane enough to enjoy combat for its own sake, or sneaking into an enemy's camp at night in disguise, but he did enjoy overcoming the challenge that such activities presented him. This, on the other hand, was too easy to be enjoyable.

He strolled down the lane that led to the center of the Golden Company's encampment with that particular blend of confidence and unbotrusiveness that had taken him through crowds unremarked from America to China to South Africa, back when he was the Winter Soldier. Someone scuttling from shadow to shadow, trying not to attract attention, might succeed, but only up until the first person spotted them; someone acting out of the ordinary was certain to be remarked on, once noticed, perhaps even challenged, especially in a military camp. Someone walking along minding their own business, especially if they looked like they belonged? Eyes skated right over you without even latching on and if anyone remembered you, they certainly didn't remember you well enough to describe you to interested parties.

The lane Bucky was strolling down led to two places. The first was the Golden Company's command tent, where its officers held council. That was a tempting target, but Bucky was minded to leave it alone for the moment. Harry Strickland was of only moderate skill as a field commander, but his principal subordinates, Gorys Edoryen, Black Balaq, Laswell Peake and his brothers, Franklyn Flowers, Tristan Rivers, Rolly Duckfield, and Marq Mandrake, were all at least competent, and certainly more aggressive than Strickland. Much better that the Golden Company be prevented from the potential it could attain under an aggressive and skilled commander.

The other place the lane led to was the company horse-lines and fodder depot. The Golden Company had left their elephants in Essos, but they had brought their horses with them; most knights would rather be the star attraction of a Lyseni orgy than abandon a good horse and the knights of the Golden Company were little different. Aside from their weapons and armor, their horses were the majority of their capital assets, as well as being symbols of their status as knights.

The9 Golden Company's horse-lines were well guarded by vigilant squires; the penalty for horse theft in the Golden Company was fifty lashes and a dishonorable discharge. Fortunately, Bucky had no need to get past these guards.

He ducked into a patch of shadow between two tents and carefully set down his pack, opening it to draw out half a dozen incendiaries of the type the Special Service Regiment had used to burn the Bleeding Tower of Tyrosh. That had been a good deed; Bucky hated slavers. Hard on the women and children when the city was sacked, but these things happened in war.

Bucky set the incendiaries on the ground, drew out a small candle, and lit it with his fire striker. From there, it was only the work of a moment to light the wicks of the incendiaries and toss them into the fodder depot. By the time Bucky was extinguishing the candle and shoving it back into his pack, the fodder was a pillar of flame ten feet high and the camp was in an uproar. Panicked horses broke free of their tethers to race through the camp, trampling men and ramming through tents in their terror. Men rushed to the fire with pails of water and wetted cloths to try and douse it, but they soon gave over trying to extinguish the blaze and simply tried to establish a firebreak around it.

By that time, Bucky was halfway back to the sally port by the Lion Gate, moving at a dead run. The Golden Company would have a difficult time sending out mounted patrols with no easy means to feed their horses. The grass around King's Landing was not enough to support more than six thousand horses for any length of time even in summer; in winter, it would be even more difficult.

XXX

Daario Naharis ground his teeth as he surveyed the village his patrol had come across. Empty, like all the rest. Empty of people, empty of livestock, and most important of all, empty of food. _Too slow,_ he snarled to himself in the privacy of his mind. _We were too slow._

After the escalade had been repulsed, the army had done little but sit for two full days as the commanders argued over what course to pursue next. Homeless Harry Strickland had advocated for a conventional siege, while the Tattered Prince had argued for establishing a base of operations in the Crownlands, isolating King's Landing, and trying again after the city had been weakened by blockade. No one, however, had suggested sailing away, not after what happened to Plumm. Eventually, it had been decided to lay siege to the city. No sooner had the lines been drawn up around the city, however, than it had been reported by Gorys Edoryen, the Golden Company's paymaster, that the army had no more than ten days' worth of food, and that if rationing was undertaken immediately.

Roughly sixteen and a half thousand men, and more than six thousand horses, ate quite a lot, and doubly so when engaged in hard labor such as constructing siege equipment and patrolling in winter weather. Fortunately the weather had remained relatively mild in that it had only snowed once and that for a two day period, but men and horses were displaying some of the early signs of hunger even so, especially after the Golden Company's fodder depot had gone up. Foraging patrols had been going out for the past four days, but all the villages within a day's ride had been emptied, people and livestock fleeing to Rosby or Antlers or Sow's Horn, and the winter crops were still unripe, leaving the army stranded in a zone where there was virtually nothing to eat. Teams of men had been set to trawl the Blackwater Rush with nets and others had been tasked with trying to fish from the shore, but such efforts could not sustain an army.

Daario shivered and drew his cloak around him as an icy gust blew down from the north. _What in the bowels of the hells possessed us to join in this lunacy,_ he asked himself bitterly. _We could be in Volantis right now, eating dates and drinking wine in comfort, instead of freezing our balls off in this shithole._ He wrenched his horse's head around and signaled to the patrol to return to camp. At least there was no sickness yet, but that would almost certainly change. The bloody flux followed armies as reliably as the crows did. _Gods witness,_ Daario swore as icy rain began to spit down from the lowering sky, _if I ever invade Westeros again, it will be in high summer._

XXX

Viserys Targaryen scowled as Gorys Edoryen finished his report. _Two days food, no fodder, and six cases of bloody flux in the Golden Company alone_. Under any circumstances, that report would have been dire. With his army still sitting outside King's Landing, it was potentially disastrous.

It was now ten days since the escalade had failed. In those ten days, there had been no less than six covert raids on the siege lines, at least four of which could be attributed to the Winter Soldier, two probes from brigades of Crownlanders loyal to his half-breed cousin, and one memorable evening when Stannis Baratheon had taken his fleet and bombarded the camp of the Company of the Cat, driving them a hundred yards inland and further disordering them. The Company of the Cat was now a company in name only, having devolved into a collection of acrimonious warbands swearing to no less than eight so-called 'captains'. At this rate, the rest of his army would follow in less than three days.

He glared out of the tent at the walls of King's Landing, his captains waiting pointedly for him to speak. _You got us into this mess,_ he could hear them say without speaking. _How do you plan to get us out of it?_

He shook himself and turned his gaze onto his captains. "Butcher one in five of the horses," he said, "enough that the men can eat well tonight. Tomorrow, we attack all along the line of the walls at the second hour before noon. A lordship and ten thousand gold dragons to the first man to establish a breach, either on the walls or through the gates. Any man who fails to go forward is to be executed on the spot for cowardice." He paused, and then added, "I will lead the assault on the Old Gate. And may the gods of my fathers receive me if I fail, for I will not return save in victory."

 **Author's Note: So that's how the siege is going. Basically, Viserys is betting the farm on a pair of fives; his army is still a veteran force and highly dangerous, but storming a fortified position is always difficult, they're on their eighth day of not-very-abundant rations, they've been camping out in winter, and they're having serious doubts about the practicability of the whole affair.**

 **To answer the reviews:**

 **Guest: Why, thank you. Fight scenes are one of my strong suits, courtesy of reading Bernard Cornwell, Eric Flint, and S. M. Stirling from a young age, among others.**

 **Bucky was told to leave Viserys alone; Aegon doesn't want to have to deal with the opprobrium of deliberate kinslaying. Killing Viserys in the heat of action in a contested breach could be defended as fortunes of war, assassination not so much.**

 **I don't plan to spin the story out quite that long, in any case; this is already the biggest Word file on my computer (144 pages!)**

 **Guest: I'm afraid that's classified information. ;)**

 **Naruto9tail: Varys knows that the good of the Realm is best served by having Aegon remain a strong king. Davos is an old smuggler; the best poker face in the Narrow Sea comes with the territory.**

 **Stannis married Janna Tyrell (Mace Tyrell's sister, part of papering over the divisions from the Rebellion). They have one son, Lyonel (oarmaster on his father's flagship at present), and two daughters, Cassana and Olenna (who have been learning intrigue from their grandmother).**

 **Viserys is called the Third inn Westerosi historiography to differentiate him from all the other Viserys's.**

 **Bucky's more like Sandor Clegane than Duncan the Tall or Aemon the Dragonknight, to my mind, thanks to his reputation as the Dreaded. Otherwise, mostly accurate, although Bucky is unlikely to leave the Stark's employ for royal service anytime soon.**

 **Wait and see, my friend, wait and see.**

 **True, but Aegon just refers to Jon as his cousin because it's a convenient term.**

 **Guest: Wait and see about the Westerlands.**

 **Bronn may be coming up in the next chapter, I have yet to actually decide.**

 **Euron is having the time of his life reaving everyone he can get away with. He knows better than to pick a fight with Braavos or the Royal Fleet (he's certifiably insane but not suicidal), but otherwise, if it floats, it's a valid target.**

 **The Citadel is wondering how an otherwise ordinary-seeming man can have Bucky's abilities. They've been bombarding Maester Luwin with ravens demanding details, but Luwin is a recent convert to the principle of doctor-patient confidentiality, especially when it concerns the security of the North.**

 **I honestly haven't given much thought to the Martell's. I'll have to ruminate on that.**

 **Guest: Bucky is less than comfortable with the idea of being a feudal lord. For one thing, becoming a lord in his own right would lead to inevitable entanglement in *shudder*** ** _politics_** **. For another, the idea of having the power of life and death over several dozen to several hundred people with only very limited constraints on his authority is a bit much for someone raised on 1940s notions of American democracy. That being so, he is quite content as a military officer, although he was unable to refuse a knighthood when the Rebellion's leadership insisted (kind of hard to refuse the societal equivalent of the Medal of Honor or the VC, or the Hero of the Soviet Union for that matter).**

 **marsolino: It's actually meant as a demonstration of the contempt slaves are held in in Essos; even when they are being used, the people using them consider it beneath their dignity to even acknowledge their existence. And if it's that way for a slave as valuable and as skilled as a translator, bethink you what it's like for a slave set to unskilled manual labor . . .**

 **Thank you all for the reviews, and stay tuned for the end of the Siege of King's Landing! Cheers, all!**


	41. Chapter 41

Bronn dragged his horse to a halt in front of the command and threw off a quick salute. "Sers, the enemy is advancing on the walls of the city; ladders and battering rams. If we want to go, now's the time."

Ser Loras Tyrell nodded. "Enemy dispositions, sergeant?"

Bronn dismounted and sketched a quick map in the dirt with his dagger point. "The Windblown are closest to us, attacking the Lion Gate. On their left is the Stormcrows, attacking the Gate of the Gods. Next in line is the Golden Company, advancing on the Old Gate. Viserys's banner is there, along with the Bloody Mummers. Next to them are the Long Lances and the Company of the Cat, advancing on the wall between the Old Gate and the Iron Gate. From where we are, sers, I recommend hitting the Windblown and the Stormcrows first, then hitting the Golden Company."

Loras nodded again. "Well done, Sergeant Bronn. To your troop, if you please." Bronn nodded, leaped back onto his horse, and spurred down the line to his troop. Loras turned to Renly. "I'll take the ordinance companies against the Stormcrows. Take the contingents from the Upper Mander and hit the Windblown. Ser Alliser, hold your men in reserve until we break the Stormcrows and the Windblown, then join us against the Golden Company." Ser Alliser Thorne nodded and spurred his horse into a trot to inform the Crownlands brigade that had turned out for King Aegon; Gyles Rosby was technically the commander of the loyalist Crownlords, but he had designated Ser Alliser as his field commander due to his sickness and Alliser's proven ability. Loras and Renly traded forearm clasps, all the affection they could show in public, and Renly cantered off to the contingents from the Upper Mander that he had taken command of. The Upper Mander houses had answered the summons to the field readily enough, but they had still been prickly over the fact that Loras had had a small army at his back when he summoned them; to their mind, a simple summons would have sufficed without any implied threats. Fortunately, Renly's charm had done a lot to smooth things over with them, enough so that Loras had given him command over the Upper Mander brigade.

Loras himself turned his horse to face the ordinance companies. "Men of the Reach!" he shouted. "Your king is besieged! Beset by traitors and sellswords who think to take the crown by force of arms, who think to seize your wealth, your homes, your lands, who seek to take by the sword all that you have wrought and all that your king has given you. _What says the Reach?!"_

The men of the ordinance companies of House Tyrell thrust their lances into the air. "Death! Death! _Death!_ " they roared back, the force of their voices an almost physical blow to the ears.

"Remember your training, follow your commanders, and hold to your oaths and we shall feast in the Red Keep this night!" Loras shouted. "And the first round is on me!" The men shouted laughter and cheered.

XXX

Harry Strickland and his officers watched as the assault went forward. Viserys, true to his word, was in the lead with the Bloody Mummers, right behind a ladder crew headed for the right side of the Old Gate. Harry shook his head. Even if the assault succeeded, it was unlikely that there would be enough food in the city to feed the army through the campaign that subduing the rest of the Kingdoms would require. The army would almost certainly be broken, either by the assault or by the weather.

A faint horn-call made him turn his head, peer through the light drizzle in curiosity, and demand his far-eye. What he saw made his heart fall into the pit of his stomach; somehow, someway, Aegon had conjured up what looked like six or seven thousand heavy cavalry and at least as many infantry and put them in the army's right rear.

His officers noticed it too. "Tell me I am hallucinating," Gorys Endoryen said plaintively, his sallow countenance even paler than usual.

"If you are, then so am I," answered Black Balaq, his ebony skin ashy.

"How?" Lysono Maar, the company spymaster, asked in tones of flat disbelief. "How did they get that close without us knowing it?"

"How doesn't matter," Harry said, closing his far-eye decisively and turning to his personal trumpeter. "Sound the halt," he snapped, turning back to his officers as the oliphants screamed. "Gorys, ride to the Stormcrows, have them conform to our movements and cover our right flank. Rolly, ride to the Long Lances, have them do the same on our left. If their captains give you any guff, kill them and take personal command. Go, men, go!" As Gorys and Rolly spurred their horses away, Harry turned back to his trumpeters. "Company will change front to the right. On center, right wheel." As the Golden Company responded to the screaming oliphants by rotating around the skull-tipped standards in the center, their discipline still unbroken despite the hardships of the siege, Harry turned back to his officers. "Lysono, ride to the front, have the knights and squires pull back to form a reserve. Anyone that still has a horse is to mount up. The infantry is to drop their siege equipment and leave it where it lies. Franklyn Flowers and Tristan Rivers will have command of the reserve, Laswell Peake and his brothers will command the infantry. Balaq, get your archers in order and pincushion anyone who comes within range." As his remaining officers galloped off, Harry saw his men begin to turn perpendicular to the wall and turned back to his trumpeters. "Sound the halt and prepare to receive cavalry." As the infantry braced their spears against their right feet and lowered them at an angle to form a bristling hedge of steel, Harry stroked his sword hilt and nodded to himself. He had done all he could to help his company survive this day. _To shit with Viserys,_ he thought savagely to himself. _And may my fate be cursed if I give ear to a Targaryen again for any cause._

XXX

The Tattered Prince scowled as he watched the Westerosi knights behind his company trot towards him, ran through options in his mind, and, deciding, turned to his standard-bearer. "Lower the colors," he said curtly, turning to his trumpeter. "Sound _halt_ and _parley_ ," he said, unfastening his sword-belt and taking his sword by the sheath. As his men ground to a halt, the Westerosi knights behind him did likewise, one of their trumpeters repeating the parley call as one of the knights cantered out to the center of the ground between them. The Tattered Prince drew himself erect in the saddle and trotted out to meet him. The Westerosi raised the visor of his antlered helm to reveal a handsome face with merry blue-green eyes.

"Ser Renly Baratheon," he introduced himself, saluting with hand to brow. "I take it you are the Tattered Prince? The costume is something of a giveaway."

"All the better to declare my presence on the field," the Tattered Prince replied. "I wish to discuss terms of surrender, conditional upon the good treatment of my officers and men."

"Not for yourself?" the Westerosi asked, his eyes narrowing.

"I supported a would-be usurper against his lawful king," the Tattered Prince said stoically. "I am willing to accept any honorable punishment that His Grace King Aegon may see fit to levy. I ask only that it fall upon me alone, and not on my men who only followed their orders." He lifted his chin. "I know how a prince dies."

The Westerosi nodded slowly. "I cannot speak for His Grace," he said, "but I shall do all I can to secure good treatment for your men. In the meantime, if you will have them dump their arms and armor before the walls and retire from the field, that will suffice for terms of surrender until the battle is ended."

The Tattered Prince nodded and handed over his sword, which the Westerosi accepted, raised over his head, and then handed back. The Tattered Prince accepted it with a bow, turned his horse, and cantered back to his men. "Have the men dump their arms and armor before the walls by companies, and then retire from the field," he told his officers. "We are well out of this."

"And Viserys?" the company paymaster asked.

The Tattered Prince spat. "That for Viserys," he said flatly. "I'll not shed the blood of one more man of mine for his folly."

XXX

Contrary to popular conceptions, a cavalry charge did not go from a standing start to a full gallop. For one thing, a horse could not cover more than a few miles at the gallop before being brought to a halt by exhaustion, especially when it was encumbered by the three hundred pounds or more that were entailed by the horse's barding, the man riding it, and that man's own armor and weapons. For another, a destrier simply could not accelerate that fast; destriers were plenty fast, but they needed time to build up that speed, not having the rabbit-like acceleration of stock horses. Most importantly, cohesion could not be maintained at the gallop and cavalry charges lived or died by their cohesion; a charge that lost its cohesion struck like individual water droplets and could be absorbed with relative ease by well-led and disciplined infantry, while a charge that maintained its cohesion struck like a tsunami, carrying all before it.

So the charge of the Tyrell ordinance companies built slowly, starting at the walk, the knights and men-at-arms riding knee to armored knee. The pennants below the lance heads snapped in the winter breeze, but the men holding the lances did not let them waver. They had trained for years for this day, enduring the abuse of underofficers and the perfectionism of their commanders; as one sergeant had roared to his troop before the charge stepped off, "There. Will. Be. No. Fuck-. Ups!"

At two hundred yards the pace increased to the trot, the horses snorting as they picked up on the tension in their riders. The men dealt with that tension in a multitude of ways; some muttered prayers under their breaths, others swore repeatedly and with growing inventiveness. One captain in the third ordinance company discussed the weather with one of his lieutenants in a display of ostentatious casualness. A lieutenant in the second ordinance company burst into the song _Iron_ _Lances_ , which was shortly taken up by his squadron and then by the whole company.

At fifty yards, the pace finally increased into the canter, the lances lowering to form a hedge of steel before the front ranks of the companies. Roars of "Highgarden for the King!" and "Growing Strong!" replaced the prayers and songs and conspicuously casual conversations, although the men still retained their alignment, the heads of their horses forming a single ruler-straight line.

The Stormcrows had not been standing idle during all this of course. Shouts and trumpet calls, and in some cases resounding kicks to the backside by their officers, pulled them back from the walls into line of battle. Many of them, however, had shortened their spears for ease of use in the press of combat, while others had discarded their spears altogether in favor of sword, axe, mace, and war hammer. Against infantry those weapons would have worked splendidly. Against heavy cavalry at the charge, they might as well have been made of wood. And while the Stormcrows had eaten well on horse-flesh the night before, they had been on their third day of half-rations and the weather, shortage of food, and enemy action had taken a toll.

When the charge hit, the Stormcrows shattered like a vase struck by a hammer. Men reeled back from the line, speared through by the lances, while others were smashed aside by the armored breasts of the destriers. Those that went under the destriers' hooves usually only had time to scream once before plate-sized hooves stamped them into ruin. Sallor the Bald and Prendahl na Ghezn were killed in the first clash as they tried to brace the line. The Stormcrows broke and fled, a small remnant cutting their way out of the melee led by Daario Naharis. For a long series of moments the ordinance companies of Highgarden rampaged through the wreck of the Stormcrows like steel-clad tigers through a flock of sheep, ignoring what was happening on the rest of the field. Braying trumpets and shouting underofficers eventually pulled them out of the battle-haze and reformed them into companies, but by then the Golden Company was barely twenty yards away from them.

XXX

This is how the Golden Company fought.

They were cold and hungry, having spent eight days camping in winter weather on short rations. They were already bruised and bloodied, having lost a tenth of their knights and squires in the first escalade along with many of their infantry and archers. Their ninety-degree turn to the right had given the engines on the walls enfilading fire down their line and roundshot from the scorpions and case shot from the mangonels ploughed bloody furrows down the ranks of the foot, to which was added arrow and bolt from archer and crossbowman. What horses remained to them had been on shorter commons than the men and were painfully thin, though not yet so wasted that they could not bear armored men in combat.

None of this mattered.

Or rather, it did matter but not in that moment. They were the heirs of Bittersteel, the iron fist of the Blackfyre kings, the finest free company in the world, to whom military discipline had the force not just of law, but of holy writ. And so when the command came to advance and the oliphants screamed and the underofficers roared, conscious thought did not enter into the equation. The infantry stepped off, a solid wall of around seven thousand spearmen, followed by some fifteen hundred archers, with just over nine hundred knights and squires in reserve.

The Reachers they were marching towards didn't seem to notice until the company was upon them, which made the company's veterans sneer in the disdain of professionals for amateurs. _They_ would not have run so wild. _They_ would have remembered their discipline and not run mad after fleeing infantry.

At twenty yards distance, the company's archers bent their bows and loosed. The effect was devastating, punching men from the saddle and sending horses screaming to the ground. Some of the smarter Reachers, seeing how close the company was and how disordered they were, dismounted and made to fight on foot, but they had only a moment to compose themselves before the company infantry charged.

Spears punched into horses, spilling their riders from the saddle as the beasts foundered. Those who fell only rarely got up again as shield, mace, war hammer, and battleaxe sought them out and hammered them into the mud. Those Reachers who had dismounted and coalesced into ad hoc groups were harder sells, fighting back with longsword, mace, war hammer, and battleaxe, but they were either forced to give ground or they were overwhelmed and beaten down. Sergeant Bronn of the first ordinance company earned a knighthood that day as he rallied his troop to the rescue of Ser Loras Tyrell, who had been fighting alone and unhorsed with his back against the base of the city walls. Those Reachers who could started to fall back, contesting every foot doggedly, but their discipline was wavering and the company horse was moving up to charge and complete the destruction.

If the knights and squires of the Golden Company had been able to launch that charge, they would almost certainly have routed the Highgarden ordinance companies, to the great detriment of House Tyrell's military reputation. As it was, fate intervened in the form of three events.

Firstly, Ser Alliser Thorne recognized that the ordinance companies were doomed without immediate support and led his Crownlands brigade in a charge that hit the right flank of the Golden Company. The oliphants screamed for the company horse to countercharge the Crownlanders, but no sooner had they moved off to do so when Ser Renly Baratheon, at the head of the Upper Mander contingents, led a dismounted advance under the walls, rallying the Highgarden men as he forged a red path to his blood-brother's side with his longsword. Third and lastly, the Old Gate opened and the defenders of King's Landing sallied out, led by the King, his Hand, the Lord Marshal, the Masters of Coin, Laws, and Ships, four knights of the Kingsguard, and some sixty knights and squires, the young gentlemen of the King's Court.

Bitter was the clash of arms then, as the Golden Company was assailed on three sides. Gorys Endoryen, who had rallied a fragment of the Stormcrows to him, was cut down as he tried to bring them back to the Golden Company's ranks by a knight of House Merryweather. Ser Rolly Duckfield led the Long Lances in a charge into the sallying defenders of King's Landing, killing Lord Jon Arryn the Hand of the King before being killed in his turn by the revengeful King. Robb Stark, the Lord Marshal's second son, made his name that day when, with his elder brother Artos, he rode into the thick of the Golden Company, killing Homeless Harry Strickland, Lysono Maar, and every one of Strickland's personal color guard. Franklyn Flowers and Tristan Rivers led the knights and squires of the Golden Company in no less than three separate charges before their horses gave out and they were pulled down and killed by a platoon of the Royal Marines. Laswell Peake and his brothers Pykewood and Torman led the infantry in a fighting retreat that eventually covered almost a mile and a half, reforming the ranks no less than eight times before a last charge by the Crownlanders, the King's Landing garrison, and the Upper Mander contingents finally broke them. In the last struggle around the skull-decorated standard of the Golden Company, Laswell Peake was killed by Ser Eddard Stark the Lord Marshal, while Pykewood Peake fell to the sword of Lord Randyll Tarly the Master of Laws and Torman Peake died under the blade of Ser Alliser Thorne. Marq Mandrake and Black Balaq, the last of the Golden Company's officers, fought back to back under the company standard until Marq was killed by Ser Jaime Lannister and Balaq was killed by Brienne of Tarth. When Brienne cut through the pole of the Golden Company's standard, sending the cloth-of-gold sheet and the gold-dipped skulls tumbling to the earth, the last of the Golden Company, barely two hundred men with not a single officer and only three badly wounded sergeants among them, finally surrendered.

 _The Battle of King's Landing was the last battle the Golden Company ever fought. The few survivors were given the choice between the headsman's sword or the Wall, with the Wall being the eventual choice. The hundred and fifty men who survived to make the journey insisted on being granted the honors of war as they marched down to the ship that would carry them to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and King Aegon was sufficiently moved by their conduct, both during and after the battle, that he granted their request, allowing them to march down to the ship with their arms and armor and their banner flying, although he was cautious enough to have their route from the Red Keep to the docks lined with the Marines and the Guides. Upon reaching the docks, the survivors of the Golden Company surrendered their standard to Ser Eddard Stark the Lord Marshal, receiving in its stead an unmarked banner of plain black, to symbolize their acceptance of the terms of service of the Night's Watch. The professionalization of the Night's Watch is largely accepted to have begun from this date._

 _The Windblown were somewhat more fortunate, largely due to the Tattered Prince's acceptance of responsibility for their part in the invasion and Ser Renly Baratheon's lobbying on their behalf. The Windblown as a whole were given the choice between the Wall or enlistment in the Royal Army, with the vast majority choosing enlistment. The Tattered Prince, upon being sentenced to death for the Windblown's part in the invasion, requested the use of his sword and fell upon it that very night after counselling his subordinates to "serve King Aegon and his heirs as faithfully as ever you served me."_

 _The Long Lances were wiped out entirely, as were the Brave Companions and the Company of the Cat. The Stormcrows were effectively destroyed, although a remnant under the command of Daario Naharis would subsist by banditry until 304 AC, when an operation by two mounted companies of the Guides and a column of Crownland knights under the command of Robb Stark finally cornered and eliminated them near Maidenpool._

\- _Dragon against Dragon: the story of Aegon the Sixth, Viserys the Third, and the Greatest Mercenary Army in History,_ by Maester Humfrey, published 1787 AC

XXX

Viserys Targaryen glanced out at the field and saw the Golden Company in retreat. "Cowards!" he roared, shaking his gauntleted fist. "Traitors! I'll have your skulls for goblets for this! I'll fry you in oil! I'll . . ."

"Do nothing of the sort," said a level voice in a strangely tinged Northern accent. Viserys turned back from the field to see the Winter Soldier. "Unless you have a dragon or two in your back pocket."

Viserys snarled. "So my _cousin_ ," the term was loaded with enough scorn to poison a man, "sends his dog to kill a king. You'll find me a tougher prey than the High Sparrow was, cur."

"And doubtless an easier prey than your brother was," Barnes said. "He at least had the courage of his convictions. Mad though he was, at least he did his own dirty work. You two should have a lot to talk about when you get to the Wall."

"The Wall?" Viserys spat. "A dragon is not a watchdog, nor is a king a watchman. I will die here in my capital, thanks."

"It is not your capital," Barnes said in a voice as final as a dungeon door slamming shut. "Nor are you a dragon or a king. Nor are you even a man." Barnes smiled mirthlessly. "You, Viserys son of Aerys, are the traitorous son of a degenerate madman, without claim to honor or to virtue, enemy of your king, your country, and your people. You are, in short, a mad dog that deserves nothing but a swift death."

Viserys roared defiance and rushed forward, his sword descending through an overhand slash that would have decapitated an ox. Barnes caught the descending sword in his metal hand, broke it off a third of the way down the blade, rammed the point through Viserys's throat, and ripped it free all in the same motion. Viserys stood for a moment, blood pouring from his ruined throat, and slowly collapsed to the walkway.

 **Author's Note: So passes Viserys, the Third of his Name, and so passes the Siege of King's Landing.**

 **Now for the reviews:**

 **Guest: Yeah, Tywin shot himself in the foot a bit by not joining the Rebellion; he doesn't have the political capital to engage in continent-level politics these days. He is the nearest thing to an absolute ruler Westeros has, though, in his own lands.**

 **chm01 and Perseus12: Viserys is not in a good place, no. His own fault for not attending to the logistics.**

 **Guest: I have one more major arc in my head (the Second War of the Three Daughters), but beyond that, nothing really springs to mind. Once Volantis is seen to, there just isn't another major power that's close enough to be a significant threat, large enough to be a significant challenge, and antagonistic enough to be a serious enemy, especially since the White Walkers are out of the picture. Slaver's Bay is just too far away to prosecute a war with medieval methods of communication and transport.**

 **CharlesCeasar: Why thank you.**

 **Naruto9tail: Something to that; I will have to cogitate.**

 **Given the foundational nature of the Hippocratic Oath to modern medicine, I can only assume the Maesters have an equivalent.**

 **Wait and see on a Westerosi representative assembly and the Second War of the Three Daughters.**

 **Guest: It wouldn't end well for the slavers, I can tell you that much.**

 **Guest: Write them yourself, then, man ( (in Clouseau voice) or woman, or whatever you are). The best part of writing fanfic is that you set your own pace and work to your own schedule (this, by the way, is not true of published writers; I should know, my mom's one).**

 **Guest (Guys, what did I say about getting your own accounts?): Daario is something of an optimist, among sellswords, or such was my reading of him.**

 **Guest: Ramsay is not in the picture. Domeric still being alive forestalled Roose from bringing him to the Dreadfort and when word came that Ramsay was growing unmanageable, Roose made certain, shall we say,** ** _arrangements_** **.**

 **Thank you all for reading, and stay tuned!**


	42. Chapter 42

The Siege of King's Landing was a crucial test for King Aegon, one which he passed with flying colors. Not only had he successfully defended his capital against a surprise rebellion, but he had crushed said rebellion in just nine days. Admittedly a great deal of luck had been involved in Ser Loras Tyrell's army being so close to King's Landing and so rapid to respond, as well as in Viserys's logistics being so poorly thought-out, but these were overlooked in the triumphant aftermath . . .

For the principals of both the King's Landing garrison and Ser Loras's army, the rewards were immediate and multitudinous. The top honors went to Ser Loras and his sworn brother Ser Renly Baratheon; the death of Ser Gerold Hightower on the first day of the siege and the death of Ser Arys Oakheart in the final battle left two empty spots in the Kingsguard, which Aegon filled with Loras and Renly after consulting with Lord Mace Tyrell, Loras's father, and Lord Robert Baratheon, Renly's eldest brother. In the meantime, Aegon ordered the creation of the Star of Valor, the first-instituted, and still highest, military award of the Westerosi honors system. The first two recipients thereof were Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon. Ser Alliser Thorne also received the Star of Valor, as did Robb Stark and his brother Artos, Brienne of Tarth, Ser Jaime Lannister, and Ser Barristan Selmy, who all received their awards in a massive ceremony before the walls of the city. In addition, the Royal Corps of Guides, the Royal Marines, the King's Landing Regiment, the City Watch of King's Landing and the five Tyrell ordinance companies received the Distinguished Unit Citation, which is the collective equivalent of the Star of Valor. . .

The flush of victory, however, did not smooth over all the troubles that resulted from the siege. The dislocation of the civilian population from around King's Landing can be justly blamed for at least five hundred civilian deaths due to exposure, enemy action, or sickness and the true toll may be higher still. In addition to this, the death of Lord Jon Arryn in the sally led to a minor crisis in the Vale of Arryn, where Arryn's widow Lysa and nephew Elbert jockeyed for control of his son and heir Robert. The situation was exacerbated by Lysa's apparent mental instability (she may have suffered from bipolar disorder and was certainly acutely paranoid) and the ambition of Elbert's son Harrold, who was next in line of succession after Robert and resented being the spare to a weak boy five years his junior. The situation eventually grew so heated (there were no less than five armed clashes between supporters of Lysa and supporters of Elbert) that Aegon was finally forced to order both sides to stand down and submit their claims for judicial review; in the meantime, he would be the guardian of his late Hand's son and Nestor Royce would serve as regent of the Vale. This order would almost certainly have been ignored (by Lysa, at least, if not by Elbert) but for the fact that the bearer of the message was Ser James Barnes the Winter Soldier. Lysa protested most vigorously, but her guards refused to confront the deadliest warrior of the age, a man whose reputation was something of a mix between that of Aemon the Dragonknight and Gregor Clegane, and so Robert Arryn left the Eyrie for King's Landing. It would be three years before he returned, as his mother and cousin dueled for the right to be his regent. The year 303 handed Aegon another personal tragedy when his beloved mother Elia died of sickness. The Black-Eyed Lily of Dorne, as she had been called by admirers, had survived Aerys the Mad, the Rebellion of the Lords Declarant, continual struggles with frail health, and the Siege of King's Landing; not for nothing did one contemporary wit exclaim "If this is the steel that Dorne makes it's frail women out of, then gods save us from the robust ones!" Aegon would wear full mourning for two years, and a black armband for the rest of his life.

In addition, the sparrows would periodically flare from sullen discontent to violent uprising for the remainder of the winter. The sparrows only rarely mustered significant support from outside the peasantry of the rural interior, but the combination of local sympathies and the numbers that some sparrow bands could attain (the Red Lake Rising of 305 numbered some six thousand combatants and at least thrice as many non-combatants before it was put down by a joint Lannister-Tully battlegroup) led to many sparrow bands being ignored until they had grown so numerous or so bold that they simply _had_ to be suppressed. This insurgency would keep the majority of House Tyrell's efforts focused on what would today be termed 'paramilitary policing' for many years and can be considered at least partly responsible for House Tyrell's expansion of military and judicial control over its bannermen as it sought to restore order in the interior Reach. . .

The difficulties of the winter of 301-307, however, did not entirely put paid to the celebrations of the nobility. Aegon's sister Rhaenys, the wife of Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun, gave birth to a son in late 302, named Maekar. In 305, two betrothals were announced; that of Artos Stark to Daenerys Targaryen, Aegon's aunt, and that of King Aegon to Margaery Tyrell. In 304, after eliminating the last remnant of the Stormcrows under Daario Naharis outside Maidenpool and slaying Daario himself in single combat, Robb Stark was summoned to Starfall for consultations with Lord Edric Dayne. Although Robb was not named the Sword of the Morning or presented with Dawn, due to his refusal to give up his name and house, Edric made it clear that he considered his cousin to be the finest knight in Westeros and commissioned Tobho Mott to forge a sword of Valyrian steel for him. When this sword was finally delivered in 307, Robb named it Frost and swore a mighty oath that it would ever be at House Dayne's service, in his hands or in his sons' hands. In 305 the betrothal of Lyonel Baratheon, Lord Stannis's second son, to Elia Sand, one of Prince Oberyn Martell's daughters, was announced.

Despite the celebrations and the difficulties of the winter, however, the arrival of spring in early 307 came with its own problems. These began in the middle of the year, when the khalasar of Khal Drogo approached the city of Myr . . .

\- _Dragon Rampant: The Middle Years of Aegon the Sixth_ by Maester Hereyn, published 499 AC

The Andal Quarter of the City of Myr had been founded and populated by a people who considered themselves separate from and natural enemies of those around them. Myr still allowed slavery, having been forbidden only the slave trade and not slavery itself, but the Andal Quarter's first law was that any slave who set foot therein was free, their freedom to be maintained at sword-point if necessary.

This, naturally, had drawn the ire of the native Myrmen, and so the Andal Quarter had been surrounded by a crenellated stone wall twelve feet high that separated it from the rest of the city. It was not the same height as the city walls, but it was certainly tall enough to keep out rioting mobs, as had been demonstrated four times in the seven years since the War of the Three Daughters. It was patrolled by men of the Andal Quarter's militia company, who if they were not regulars were still well-equipped thanks to the wealth of the Quarter's inhabitants and diligent in both their training and their daily duties. The Andal Quarter was also garrisoned by a platoon of Royal Marines, the visible symbol of royal protection.

None of this mattered to the Dothraki horde approaching Myr under the cover of night. People who dwelt in cities were not people at all, by their lights, but rather sheep, to be preyed upon at leisure. Only the Dothraki were true men, deserving of honor. All others were beneath them.

Although if you pressed Khal Drogo, he would admit to being willing to make an exception for the Untouchables who were supposed to be getting them into the city, if they succeeded. The Dothraki were the premier light cavalry in the world, but they had never mastered the art of siege warfare. To be sure, they had never had to; their reputation for savagery had sufficed for centuries. But the simple fact was that if a fortified city simply shut its gates in a khalasars face and waited them out, sooner or later that khalasar would have to retreat. But if a gate was opened for the riders to enter, now . . .

Khal Drogo peered through the night through eyes long trained to cope with darkness. It was the third hour past midnight, and sunrise would come in barely three hours. If the Untouchables were doing what they said they would, then the gates would be open quickly. If not . . . _I will tear the hearts out of the Triarchs of Volantis and eat them while they watch,_ he vowed. _Hear me, O Great Stallion, O Midnight Mare._

A slight creak, inaudible to any ears but those of one whose life had depended on the keenness of his hearing, came through the night and Drogo strained his eyes. Yes, the gate _was_ opening; the Untouchables had kept their word. Drogo swore to his gods that he would gift the Untouchables with any horse they chose as reward for this, drew his arakh, and gave voice to the blood scream, the eerie, yipping wail that let all the world know that the horselords were riding to war, and the riders of his khalasar echoed it back forty-thousandfold as they charged the city.

 _The Sack of Myr lasted for the better part of four days as the Dothraki pillaged it for everything it was worth. The destruction and loss of life was extreme in all parts of the city, but it was worst of all in the Andal Quarter, where there were no recorded survivors and where an estimated ninety percent of all buildings were totally destroyed and the rest so badly damaged that they were later destroyed in the interests of public safety. Volantene chroniclers write that Khal Drogo's khalasar carried away at least a hundred thousand slaves and perhaps as many as twice that number; enough, at any rate, to depress the price of slaves in Volantis and Lys by as much as seventy percent for the rest of the year._

\- _People of the Horse: The Rise and Fall of the Dothraki_ by Maester Perides, published 870 AC

XXX

Aegon's jaw ached from clenching it on his fury and his sorrow as Oberyn finished his report. _Ten thousand of my people,_ he thought furiously, _raped, enslaved, or killed by those horse-fucking savages. O, my people, forgive me my failure. May the gods smite me if I fail to avenge you._ He breathed deeply through his nostrils, aware that his Small Council was looking at him somewhat nervously. _Tonight, I will bewail the dead. Until then, let me be as stone. I have a king's work yet to do today._ A good three minutes passed before he trusted himself enough to speak. "How did the Dothraki enter the city?" he asked woodenly. "Were the walls not defended?"

"The militia company and the Marine platoon died to the last," Oberyn said, "As did those of the inhabitants who had time to take up weapons. But my men found in the remains of the gatehouse men who had been killed by stealth. It is possible, Your Grace, that the city was infiltrated by men trained as Colonel Barnes was trained, who opened a gate to the khalasar."

"Point of order, Prince Oberyn," said Colonel Barnes from the side of the room, "I was not simply trained, I was made. But yes, that is the most likely explanation. More strongholds have been lost to treachery than to sieges."

"Could the Dothraki have developed such men on their own?" asked Rodrik Harlaw, who had taken Stannis's place as Master of Ships.

"It is possible, but I think not, my lord," said Varys the Spider. "Your Grace, I have heard a song from one of my birds in Volantis that the Triarchs have been buying Unsullied by the thousand since the end of the War of the Three Daughters. The Unsullied are not known for their stealth, but it is possible that they may have been given extra training."

"You will discover, Lord Varys, if Volantis had any part in this barbarism," Aegon said flatly, "We care not for your methods, so long as we know one way or the other."

Varys bowed low in his chair. "No effort shall be spared, Your Grace," he said simply.

"In the meantime, Ser Eddard," Aegon continued, "issue alert orders to Category One contingents throughout the Seven Kingdoms to prepare themselves for a campaign in the Disputed Lands to begin in three months. This Khal Drogo is still in the Disputed Lands?" he asked Oberyn and Varys, who both nodded. "Issue alert orders also for Category Two contingents to bring themselves to wartime readiness within the next four months. If we are to undertake a war with Volantis, then we shall need every sword we can get." The lands of the Rhoyne watershed and the Orange Shore were fertile and densely populated, and Volantis was one of the greatest cities in the East. "Lord Stannis, send word to Braavos of this; tell them that if Khal Drogo acted alone, then we shall attend to this ourselves. If not, then we call upon the Braavosi for aid with sword and sail, under the terms of their treaty with us." Stannis bowed in his seat, as did Eddard. "We shall reconvene when Varys has more information for us, my lords. Until then, we are adjourned."

Aegon waited until the room emptied before clasping his hands before his face and bowing his head. _All-Seeing Father who balances the scales of justice, Merciful Mother, all ye gods and goddesses of my people, hear my oath,_ he swore. _While I have breath in my lungs and strength in my arms, I shall make no peace with the monsters that have done this to my people. I shall harry them by land and by sea, scourge their lands with fire and sword, and lay their cities in ruins, that my people might be avenged. By my Throne and on my life, I do so swear._

Later that night, as King Aegon wept in his bedchamber for his people, Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard fingered the hilt of his sword and smiled carnivorously. _I, too, would curse you, you horse-humping barbarians,_ he thought savagely, _but my curses would count as nothing. One is coming for you greater than I, who brings not curses but fire and blood. Tremble, Khal Drogo, for the dragon is roused._

 _Tremble!_

 **Author's Note: And that is the Second War of the Three Daughters kicked off. Apologies for the gap between updates; I work in retail and December is the busiest month of the year in American retail, especially the last two weeks thereof.**

 **On to the reviews!**

 **Sceonn: I hope this chapter answered that question. :)**

 **exillion: I would challenge you to write a better fic than this one if you don't like it, but that would presume that you had the intelligence to do so, of which I see no evidence. That being so, why don't you schlep off back to your parent's basement and have fun with your hentai and let us get on with enjoying ourselves?**

 **Still Anonymous (I see what you did there ;)): He was hoping to uphold the honor of his house by accompanying his king into battle.**

 **Naruto9tail: Wait and see, my friend, wait and see.**

 **Guest: Aw, you'll make me blush.**

 **Loras and Renly are products of the class and time that produced them. They may be elitist snobs, but they make up for it by being very good at their profession, which is as heavy cavalrymen. And Viserys figured that going out in a blaze of glory was better than spending the rest of his days on the Wall like some common criminal.**

 **Humans aren't always rational when there's honor to be had. In Jon's defense, his actions aren't unprecedented in our world; William Marshal, 1st Earl of Pembroke, was actively campaigning through his late sixties and led a successful cavalry charge at the age of seventy. And his death did cause enough problems that Aegon had to send Bucky up to get all sides to back off and let a judge settle it.**

 **Guest: Cheers, mate. Everyone, say it with me: NO QUARTER TO TROLLS! Because seriously, fuck bullies.**

 **Guest: Thanks!**

 **Guest: Humans don't always make sense. Jon Arryn basically showed up in the square before the gate in full kit and dared anyone to gainsay his right to follow his king into battle and Aegon didn't have the heart to refuse his surrogate grandfather one last hurrah before retirement.**

 **Dutchsoldier: Constantinople also had the Walls of Theodosius, which King's Landing does not. As for the other examples, sources or it didn't happen, is all this former history student will say.**

 **Please note that there is not likely to be a new chapter before New Year's, as I will almost certainly be too busy with family stuff. Thank you all for reviewing, and Happy Holidays!**


	43. Chapter 43

An observer with the perspective of a god would have seen half a world on the march that spring. From Westeros came the power of a continent, as regiments from the North, brigades from the Westerlands, and ordinance companies from the Reach joined phalanxes from Dorne and companies from the Stormlands at the ruins of Myr. White Harbor, Gulltown, King's Landing, Planky Town, and Oldtown issued forth streams of ships bearing men by the tens of thousands and supplies by the ton, all paid for by a river of gold. The long years of peace in King Aegon's minority had contributed greatly to the wealth of Westeros's merchant class, and the War of the Three Daughters had given Kevan Lannister the Master of Coin practice in funding a war. In addition to the regular customs duties and taxes, a wartime tax of a tenth of movable goods was quickly agreed upon with representatives of the Merchant's Guild, to which was added a low-interest loan of three hundred thousand gold dragons put up by the principal banking houses of King's Landing, Gulltown, Lannisport, Oldtown, Maidenpool, Planky Town, and White Harbor. The merchants and bankers of Westeros had lost many friends and family members in the Sack of Myr, and they were eager for the debt to be repaid in whetted steel and leaping flame.

Across the sea, the east was moving as well. Khal Drogo, flush with wealth and pride from the Sack of Myr, loitered along the southern shore of the Sea of Myrth and taunted the Westerosi with flying raids by his outriders. In the north of Essos, the Second Sword of Braavos led the Braavosi fleet southwards, carrying ten thousand Braavosi pike and crossbowmen to the aid of their ally. But the greatest stirring of all was in the domains of Volantis. The First Daughter of Valyria had long rued the humiliation of the War of the Three Daughters, when they had been unable to do more than protest as Westeros cut through the Three Daughters and rearranged the map of Essos to its liking. The Old Blood of Volantis had thought long and hard on how they might avenge such a slight, and laid plans within plans. Now those plans were activated. When the Grand Army of Volantis finally marched out along the Orange Shore, it numbered sixty thousand foot, thirty thousand horse, and two hundred elephants. The iron core of the force was twelve thousand Unsullied, purchased, transported, and maintained at great cost by the Triarchs, but they were joined by city watchmen with tiger stripes tattooed across their cheeks, slave swordsmen from the cities of Slaver's Bay, battalions of pikemen from Volantis's subject cities along the Rhoyne, and fully eight in ten of the young noblemen of Volantis, many of them riding as armored horsemen or else serving as officers.

The Royal Army of Westeros, knowing that they were outnumbered but nonetheless made confident by the separation of their enemies, turned west from Myr and marched against Khal Drogo, bringing him to battle along a dry riverbed outside the village of Elborak.

XXX

Khal Drogo looked over the Andal herald and sneered; this ponce in his garish tabard was the messenger of a king? Clearly he wasn't much of a king if he relied on such creatures as this weakling to do his talking for him. "Go back and tell your king," he growled, taking no notice of the translator-slave who had jogged out at the heel of his horse to the parley, "that I will cut out his heart and feed it to his wives before I take them for my own. Perhaps one of them will be strong enough to give me a son to be khal after me." With that, he spun his horse around and cantered it back to his riders, drawing his arakh and raising it over his head to signify that there would be no peace this day.

As the Dothraki yipped and howled and cried Drogo hail, Belicho Maegyr frowned uneasily. The Dothraki were the finest light horse in the world, but these Dothraki were outnumbered by two to one at least and the armies of Westeros had built a fearsome reputation over the past decade. To make it worse, the whole front line of the Westerosi army that Belicho could see was comprised of infantry. Against other horsemen, the Dothraki would probably have been smart enough to employ the skirmishing tactics that had served them so well over the years, but when faced with infantry, all bets were off. The Dothraki looked upon infantrymen as lower forms of life, fit only to be ridden down and slaughtered.

Drogo trotted over and hailed Belicho. "Come, Volantene, and ride with me!" he shouted. "There are scalps to be had this day!" Belicho concealed a pang of unease; he could not refuse so great an honor as to ride at the khal's side and hope to retain his standing with the barbarians.

"By all means, great khal," he said politely, donning his helmet and loosening his arakh in its sheath. He ignored the disdainful looks of the khal's bodyguards; the savages might consider armor unmanly, but he respected his skin too much to expose it to edged steel unnecessarily. "Will we engage them with bows, great khal?" he enquired, trying to plant a seed of caution in Drogo's mind. The cannier the khal played this, the better the odds for Volantis in general and Belicho Maegyr specifically.

Drogo snorted in disdain. "No," he said flatly, waving his arakh in a circle over his head and giving voice to the bloodscream. Belicho Maegyr muttered curses as forty thousand throats echoed their khal's cry and spurred his horse forward as the khalasar started to move.

XXX

Joffrey Lannister quelled the uneasy rumbling in his innards with an effort of will, raised an eyebrow, and remarked, "Noisy lot, aren't they?" in a dry voice to his retinue in order to conceal his nervousness. The army of the Westerlands was his to command in this campaign, twenty thousand foot and five thousand horse, including two brigades of House Lannister's personal army and a thousand belted knights. All of it his, along with the acclaim of victory or the opprobrium of defeat. Grandfather Tywin hadn't said anything explicit, but Joffrey knew that this was his last test before he was confirmed as the old man's heir. He had passed every other test Grandfather had set him, all that remained to be seen was whether he could command an army on campaign and in the field.

So far, Grandfather wouldn't have too much to raise an eyebrow at. Every man was here, except for a few killed or maimed in the sundry accidents that happened whenever large numbers of men, livestock, and wagons were gathered in one place. Every man had his regulation armor and weapons, the flow of rations and pay had been steady, and discipline had been easily maintained. All that remained for now was to defeat the most notorious khalasar in the east, headed by a khal more famous than any since the Century of Blood.

Fortunately, their position was good. The battlefield was largely flat grassland, except for a dry riverbed that ran across the field between the two armies. This riverbed wasn't terribly steep-sided, but it was roughly six feet deep and some thirty feet across and the bottom was loose sand and gravel; in other words, it made for a significant cavalry obstacle. Joffrey's army was positioned fifty yards back from the riverbed, with the left wing of the Royal Army of the Reach tied in on their right and the Dornish array on their left. For his own dispositions, Joffrey had posted a double rank of spearmen in the front backed by a double rank of crossbowmen and four ranks of archers. Behind this line, his infantry reserve was grouped in a pair of solid blocks on either flank, while his cavalry was posted in the center. If the spearmen gave way on the flanks, the infantry would plug the gap and maintain cohesion with the northmen and the Dornish. If the center broke, then his cavalry would countercharge to allow the infantry to reform.

All of that, however, presumed that the Dothraki would break through. Joffrey knew the wisdom of not tempting fate, but he nonetheless doubted that that would happen.

As he watched the Dothraki trot to within three hundred yards, he turned to the commander of his archers. "Commander Scarlock, your men may loose at will," he said with only slightly forced calmness. Commander Willam Scarlock, who had been a small-time poacher before being given the choice of enlisting or losing his string-fingers, nodded and signaled his bow-captains. Not five seconds later, the archers of the Royal Army of the West bent their bows and spat forth a hissing cloud of arrows.

The Dothraki scorned armor as being both clumsy and unmanly; a true man trusted to his skill, speed and strength to defend himself. Unfortunately for them, an arrow didn't care how fast or how strong or how skillful you were if you got in its way. Dothraki fell by the hundreds from the first volley alone and by the time that first volley fell, the second was halfway there and the third one had just been loosed.

The western archers did not emphasize individual marksmanship to the extent that the Guides or the Army of the North did; their institutional emphasis was en masse rate of fire. A company of western archers going flat out could put four company volleys in the air before the first had landed. They wouldn't necessarily be as accurate, but when tens of thousands of arrows flew at a dense target like a Dothraki khalasar on the attack, one could expect thousands of arrows to find a living target.

Of the twenty thousand Dothraki riders attacking the westermen, only some ten thousand made it through the beaten zone from two hundred and fifty to one hundred meters in front of the infantry. In that beaten zone, men and horses were later found lying four or five deep, and sometimes the bottom of those ghastly piles of the slain would yield a man who had been wounded but still lived. Those who got past the beaten zone to the edge of the riverbed found that their troubles were only beginning; it was there that they came under the fire of the crossbows. Those crossbows could punch a bolt though armor. Against unarmored men and unbarded horses, they were murderous. The western crossbowmen also fired strictly by volleys and worked in pairs; when one man fired, he changed places with a man behind him while he reloaded, so that the stream of bolts was as constant as possible.

XXX

Belicho Maegyr staggered to his feet, leaning on his arakh to push himself up, and careened across the riverbed to put his back against the far bank. _May the immortal gods consign Khal Drogo to the pits,_ he thought savagely. _This is why you don't charge well-formed and braced infantry with any cavalry, forget light cavalry._ A Dothraki tried to scramble over the top of the bank and tumbled back down again not three seconds later, howling over the crossbow bolt transfixing his shoulder. _And may the almighty gods throw those never-to-be-sufficiently-damned archers in with the great khal,_ Belicho snarled to himself, _and may they have much joy of each other._ The far riverbank from the Westerosi line now sported a berm of dead and wounded men and horses two deep, thanks to the crossbowmen, and the beaten zone where the archers' volleys landed was even worse. Belicho had been unhorsed early on, and there had been nothing for it but to lower his head like a man walking into a gale and plow forward as best he could, either circumventing or trampling over dead and dying men and horses. Not until now had Belicho properly appreciated the dictum which held that foot archers could mass three times as many bows per unit of front as horse archers, nor had he appreciated just what that fact meant for the poor bloody idiots who tried to charge such an infantry line regardless, like, say, the Dothraki. _May their ballocks all rot and their women all give birth to Westerosi bastards,_ Belicho cursed to himself as he watched a Dothraki try to leap his horse over the berm and into the riverbed, take a pair of crossbow bolts to the chest, fall from the saddle, and break his neck upon landing. _Which they will do, I doubt not, with alarming facility._

Somehow, Khal Drogo had managed to survive with only flesh wounds, although his horse had been killed as he rode into the riverbed. The khal was striding up and down the riverbed, roaring those men lucky enough to reach the riverbed alive to their feet and pushing them against the side of the bank, ready to charge. _Are you willfully blind, you bloody barbarian fool, or were you just born stupid?_ Belicho raged at him in his mind. _Can't you see that you've lost?_ But even as he thought so, he knew that Drogo would not be defeated until he was killed. The greatest khal of the Great Grass Sea did not admit defeat to mere foot-soldiers.

At last, Drogo apparently decided that he had gathered enough men and raised his arakh. "Come on, you dogs!" he roared. "Would you live forever?! Glory awaits!" And giving voice to the bloodscream he surged over the top of the bank, followed by barely three hundred men, among them Belicho Maegyr, who found himself rising to his feet and following the last-effort charge over the top, cursing as he went and wondering what in the hells he had done to deserve this.

XXX

"Give up, you silly bastards, give up!" Sandor Clegane snarled as he drew his longsword. "Go home, damn you!" But the Dothraki still came on, on foot now but nonetheless screaming their hearts out as they rushed forward in the swaggering, splay-legged gait of born horsemen. The crossbows spoke once, and twice, sending screamers tumbling to the ground, but the rest of them, led by one massive specimen waving an arakh of truly impressive size, crashed into the line of spearmen and broke through, carving through the infantrymen. Sandor cursed, turned to the group of sword-and-axe men who were his reserve, roared, "Come on, boys!" and rushed to plug the gap.

The Dothraki were fierce fighters, but Sandor Clegane was one of the most fearsome swordsmen in Westeros, and he was wearing full plate, while many of the Dothraki were naked to the waist. Arakhs rang off cuirass, helmet, pauldron, cuisse, and vambrace as Sandor strode through them, while every blow he dealt with his longsword struck home and left dead or maimed bodies in his wake; behind him, the sword-and-axe men wrought similar execution, although a few of them went down due to their lighter armor. Finally, Sandor found himself face-to-face with the screamer who had led the charge. The Dothraki was standing in a circle of spearmen, his arakh flashing as he stood at bay over the bodies of three other screamers who had died around him. His copper skin was latticed with cuts from arrow, spear, and sword, but he still stood like a tower and beat off the spears that probed for his life.

Sandor knew that knightly protocol in situations like this was to call off the spearmen, challenge the other bugger, and have a nice, neat, tidy little duel. Sandor Clegane, however, was proud of his lack of knighthood, and cared nothing for such niceties; he was paid to kill men, and he wasn't paid extra to do it by the rules of chivalry. So instead of going through the rigmarole of challenge, he simply lowered his shoulder and rushed the man, knocking him off his feet and swiping at him with his longsword. The Dothraki tumbled backward under the blow, agile as an acrobat, and came up swinging. Sandor blocked two blows and took another one on his breastplate that would have cut him in half if he hadn't been wearing armor. _Hell's bells, but this bugger's quick,_ he thought as he dashed the pommel of his sword into the other man's face to knock him back. _Strong, too._ He had felt that third blow through cuirass, gambeson, and shirt as a jarring impact that resonated in his ribs; if he hadn't know better, he'd have sworn the Dothraki had hit him with a mace. Then the Dothraki came on with a guttural roar and there was no more time to think.

For long minutes the two men stood and traded blows, longsword and arakh clanging as they turned and swayed and strove for advantage. Thrice the arakh drove home in lethal blows that were only foiled by armor plate. Thrice the longsword pierced the web of steel that the arakh wove and sought the life of the Dothraki, only to be robbed by a sudden twist or bob. Twice the two men locked swords and pushed at each other like bull elk in rut, only giving way when one of the men twisted aside to throw the other off. Slowly, but surely, the Dothraki began to tire, his arakh swinging a little slower, his maneuvers a trifle more sluggish. His opponent tired as well, but the Andal was wearing armor and the Dothraki was not. The Dothraki blocked fifty cuts, the fifty-first flashed through his guard, and only a last-second flinch turned a decapitation into a lacerated shoulder. He parried fifty thrusts, the fifty-first flickered past his arakh, and only a desperate twitch turned a skewered lung into a bloody furrow along the side of his ribs.

The Dothraki summoned up reserves of strength that not even his forty years and more of survival on the wild plains had tapped. He was Drogo, son of Barbo, the greatest of his people, and he would not die at the hands of some common _walker_. He sprang, giving voice to a hoarse shout as he swung at the Andal's head, but that was the mistake Sandor Clegane had been waiting for. Clegane's left arm came up, depriving the arakh of its target by taking the blow on the vambrace, and even as Clegane's left arm cracked across his right arm drove his longsword through Khal Drogo's torso up to the hilts. The two men stood breast to breast for a long moment, but even Khal Drogo could not maintain his grip on life with three feet of steel through his diaphragm and the great khal sagged to the ground, lying like a lion slain in the very act of pouncing on his prey.

XXX

Joffrey Lannister did _not_ shout and clap his gauntleted hands as the massive screamer finally fell under Clegane's blade; instead he turned to his secretary and said calmly, "Take a note of that, Master Hardison, and write up a recommendation for Clegane to be awarded the Star of Valor." A lord of Casterly Rock did not react to good news like a small boy learning that lessons were cancelled for the day, this he had learned at the age of ten.

Which was a slight pity, because the news so far was uniformly good. Not only had the Dothraki charge failed on his front, but on either side the Reachers and the Dornishmen had repulsed the screamers as well. And off in the distance Joffrey could see Northern cavalry squadrons swinging out to cut off the retreat of the nomad horsemen, while the Northern infantry marched on the khalasar's encampment. The Royal Army of Westeros was victorious. _And it is so because of me and my men,_ Joffrey thought, his ears ringing with the cheers of the Westermen crying him hail. _Grandfather, behold my work._

XXX

 _The Battle of Elborak was an unvarnished Westerosi victory. When the dead were tabulated the next day, it was found that of some forty-one thousand riders, at least thirty thousand were killed or wounded. Moreover, the Army of the North's outflanking movement captured the khalasar's encampment entire, scooping up some seventy thousand noncombatants, more than two thousand wagons, and the khalasar's entire horse herd. The khalasar of Khal Drogo, the mightiest of its kind in the Great Grass Sea, was almost totally destroyed in exchange for less than a thousand Westerosi casualties of all descriptions._

 _Needless to say, the rewards were distributed with a generous hand. Joffrey Lannister was knighted by King Aegon himself for his part in leading the Royal Army of the West, as were half a dozen other officers who distinguished themselves. Sandor Clegane refused knighthood, even when King Aegon offered to be the one to give the accolade, but the slayer of Khal Drogo could not refuse reward entirely, and so he awkwardly accepted the Star of Valor . . ._

 _The noncombatants of Khal Drogo's khalasar, mostly women, children, and men either too aged or too infirm to ride to battle, were later shipped back to Westeros, with King Aegon ordering that they be dispersed throughout the Seven Kingdoms to whatever realm would have them. Some managed to make their way to the North, where Benjen Stark had been instructed to accept them by his elder brother Lord Brandon on the grounds that the North was not so densely peopled that it could turn away willing hands, but many would perish over the next two years, either of starvation and disease or from vigilantes 'avenging' the Sack of Myr. This has led to charges of genocide being leveled against King Aegon in recent years, but this author's opinion is that any culpability on King Aegon's part in their deaths was that of negligence at best, rather than deliberate intent or malice aforethought. . ._

\- _People of the Horse: The Rise and Fall of the Dothraki_ by Maester Perides, published 870 AC

 **Author's Note: So that's the first phase of the Second War of the Three Daughters. Now all that remains is to defeat the Grand Army of Volantis and the combined Lysene/Volantene fleet.**

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	44. Chapter 44

Belicho Maegyr winced against the pain in his head. Apparently one of the Westerosi officers had ordered that he be taken alive, which had resulted in an enthusiastic ranker breaking a spear shaft over Belicho's helmet. He probably should have expected this, in hindsight; the rarity of armor among the Dothraki would result in anyone wearing it being singled out for special attention. Which was why he was in this tent, surrounded by fuming Westerosi lords and confronted by the Westerosi king, who Belicho really had to compliment on his composure. Very few men would be so temperate after winning such a decisive victory.

"You are not Dothraki," the king observed. "What is your name and from where do you hail?"

Belicho lifted his chin. "I am Belicho Maegyr, Commander of Five Hundred in the Army of Volantis and Speaker to Savages. I can pay a ransom, if that interests you."

"What business does Volantis have with Dothraki?" the king asked as his lords rumbled.

"That, Your Grace, is Volantis's concern and none of yours," Belicho said coolly. "Volantis reserves the right to treat with other peoples on her own terms."

"What Volantis does becomes our concern when ten thousand of our people are murdered by the same peoples that Volantis treats with," the king said flatly as the rumbling of his lords took on an altogether more ominous tone. "Were you there when Khal Drogo attacked Myr?"

Belicho lifted his chin. "I have given you my name and my rank," he said serenely. "Under your laws of war, I am under no obligation to tell you anything more."

"Perhaps not," said a tall man with shoulder-length dark brown hair, a weathered oval face, and a left arm apparently made of living metal, "but stubborn tongues can be loosened."

Belicho raised an eyebrow; _this_ was the Winter Soldier? The man looked positively mundane, if extremely fit, even by the standards of fighting men. "I am a son of the Maegyrs of Volantis," he said, "who were noblemen when your ancestors were swine-herders living in mud huts. What is more, I am an accredited diplomat in the service of the Triarchs. The law of nations forbids that such as I be put to torture. In any case," he continued, tossing his head defiantly, "I am not some commoner, to break when put on the rack."

The Winter Soldier's bleak gaze bored into Belicho's eyes. "You'll break," he said in a voice that was as devoid of feeling as a stone, his face completely expressionless. "Everyone breaks, sooner or later."

"Colonel Barnes, that will do," the king said warningly, to which the Winter Soldier blinked and then stepped back, his face still expressionless but no longer quite so dead-looking. "Master Maegyr, you will be transported to the isle of Tyrosh, there to be kept as our prisoner in the Bleeding Tower. You have our word that your imprisonment will be under honorable conditions, but your parole will not be accepted for the duration of the war." Belicho shrugged; such were the risks one ran in war and without giving his parole, there was nothing to bar him from attempting escape. "You will also," the king went on, his voice hardening, "be provided with legal counsel to prepare you for your trial on the charge of willful violation of the laws of war, which shall be held at our pleasure after the current war is completed." The king transferred his gaze from Belicho to the two soldiers standing behind him. "Soldiers, remove the prisoner. He shall be transported to Tyrosh on the next available ship."

It wasn't until the soldiers had hustled him out of the tent that Belicho realized that his jaw was hanging open, prompting him to shut it with an audible click.

XXX

The villages and towns of the Disputed Lands had evolved in a climate of raiding armies, perpetuated by the unstable balance of power between Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh that had plagued the southwestern corner of Essos for centuries. However, those armies had known that, in order to be able to prosecute campaigns across the Disputed Lands, they needed the inhabitants to be able and willing to provide food, forage, and information on the enemy. As a result, warfare in the Disputed Lands had developed an intricate code of conduct. Pillage was effectively banned, as were the torture or despoliation of civilians; their lack of regard for these restrictions was a large part of the reason why the Brave Companions had been so universally despised. Instead, foraging parties from the various armies would ride up to a given village, demand 'the usual', and be given whatever amount of food, fodder, and other supplies the village was accustomed to hand over to passing armies. Often enough, the village in question would be compensated, partly in cash, partly in kind; the draft horses of the Disputed Lands had a substantial amount of warhorse in their collective lineage, for one thing. This modus vivendi was sustained by two factors. Firstly, the Disputed Lands were quite fertile, thanks to a network of creeks originating from the Great Lakes in the eastern part of the territory. Secondly, the sellsword companies who had done most of the fighting had recognized that they needed to keep themselves in the good graces of at least the majority of the inhabitants of the Disputed Lands, given their peripatetic lifestyle.

The Second War of the Three Daughters saw this complicated code largely ignored.

On the one hand, this was a function of the size of the armies involved. The Grand Army of Volantis numbered ninety thousand fighting men alone, not counting the tens of thousands of camp followers, hundreds of thousands of draft animals, and hundreds of elephants who on their own required almost thirty tons of food a day. The Royal Army of Westeros, itself eighty thousand strong with hundreds of thousands of horses, mules, and oxen, also consumed vast amounts of food that the Disputed Lands could not supply entirely. Indeed, the operations of such large armies were only made possible by massive efforts involving thousands of ships; the Volantene fleet was almost wholly engaged in logistical operations, relying on their Lyseni allies to shield them from interdiction by Westerosi and Braavosi warships.

On the other hand, the armies involved had little knowledge of or regard for the usual conventions of warfare in the Disputed Lands. The regular and semi-regular forces in the Royal Army of Westeros, especially the Northern regiments, the Lannister brigades, the Trident Guard, and the Royal Regiments, tended to respect the practice of requisitioning, especially when officers or former members of the Windblown were present, but the feudal contingents, who served as the personal fighting tail of a particular lord, often disregarded such niceties in favor of outright pillaging. This was due to both a lack of ready hard cash on the part of the lords in question and to the assumption that, in time of war, the law was what the stronger party said it was.

The Grand Army of Volantis had not even the few qualms that the Westerosi possessed. The Volantenes regarded themselves as the rightful masters of the world, all of which was their property to be disposed of as they saw fit. If there were parts of the world where this was not recognized, it was because the local inhabitants had not been properly apprised of their place in the world. As such, the Grand Army of Volantis left a swath of looted villages in its wake. On at least two occasions, when the village in question objected too loudly or too persistently, the Volantenes deliberately razed the village and massacred or enslaved the inhabitants.

However, even the most comprehensive supply efforts were not sufficient to allow either army to march as a single entity. Instead, they divided by contingents, marching parallel to each other with contact maintained by mounted courier. In such a campaign, the advantage lay with the army that could maintain its own communications while disrupting the enemy's, and the Second War of the Three Daughters was marked by an intensive patrolling operation on the part of the Royal Army of Westeros, spearheaded by the Northern Reconnaissance and Special Service Regiments and the Royal Corps of Guides and under the overall command of Colonel Ser James Buchanan Barnes . . .

XXX

The young Volantene nobleman who led the patrol raised his Myrish far-eye to his eye and scanned the horizon. More than a dozen couriers had disappeared in this particular section of savanna, the last three of which had been escorted by a half-dozen horsemen each. It seemed unlikely that the Andal outriders would be able to penetrate the scouting screen and insert themselves between two parts of the Grand Army like this, but perhaps the Andals' pet savages were actually that good. If there was any truth to the camp rumor that the Winter Soldier was in fact a demon from the far northlands, then it was certainly possible.

And it wasn't like the terrain didn't provide ample opportunity for concealment. The grass was breast-high on the young nobleman's horse and the scattered trees were certainly thick enough in the trunk to hide a man. Fortunately, his patrol included a trio of Dothraki, survivors of the Battle of Elborak, who knew this area of old; they had assured him that they had seen nothing that would indicate the presence of enemies.

The young nobleman closed his far-eye and carefully stowed it in a small pouch at his belt; with Myr destroyed, it was unlikely that such devices would be readily available in the near future and his family had rather more nobility than wealth. As he raised his eyes from his belt and gathered up the reins, he had just enough time to register a prickling sensation between his shoulder blades before something fetched him an almighty blow on the side of the head and slammed him into darkness.

"I was wondering when you would give the signal," said Dormund Tormundsson, his deep voice slightly reproving as he rifled the pockets of a slain Volantene and cursing as he found only a handful of small coin. "I was about to give it myself."

"If you had, I would have cut your hamstrings and left your fat ass for the slavers," Ygritte said casually as she knelt over the corpse of the young Volantene she had shot through the head. "And old Ironarm would have approved of it, don't think he wouldn't have," she added as she began to go through the man's pockets. Dormund shrugged acquiescence; Colonel Barnes did not tolerate insubordination. Old habits, however, died hard; the Special Service Regiment was famous for its lack of formality.

Ragdar trotted up on his garron, having evidently chased down the one Volantene to try and escape, judging by the blood on his spear-head. "No escape from me, sarge," he said cheerfully, flourishing his weapon. "He made it a hundred yards. I took him from behind, thusly . . ."

"Shut it," Ygritte snapped, her eyes rescanning the paper she had pulled from the Volantene's wallet. She had learned to read since going south of the Wall, but it was still difficult enough without distractions, especially when she was reading bastard Valyrian instead of Common. She read the paper a third time to make sure she was reading it correctly and rose to her feet, shoving it into her belt pouch. "Mount up," she called, prompting a last flurry of searching hands before the patrol under her command rose from their victims and leaped back onto their horses. "Move out, wolf-pace as long as the horses can stand it," she said, heeling her garron into a trot. Five miles at the trot followed by five at the walk would have the horses blowing hard by sundown, but it would be worth it to get the word to Colonel Barnes that the Volantene central column was changing course.

XXX

Grey Worm yanked his spear out of the Andal knight's corpse. The knight had been strong and had some skill with the heavy longsword the Andals favored, but he had not been an Untouchable; Grey Worm had taken him in three moves.

He looked up to see White Cockroach trotting over to him from where he and three others had been stationed to cut off any escape from this narrow defile between two steep hillsides. "None escaped?" he asked.

"None," said White Cockroach. "But they sold their lives dearly; Black Louse is too wounded to march."

Grey Worm did not mention that White Cockroach was himself bleeding freely from a lacerated forearm. If the wound was serious, he would have, but it did not show the telltale pulsing flow of a severed artery, and White Cockroach would be able to march and fight with such a wound for some time yet. "Give Black Louse the Lady's mercy, and then rejoin the dozen. These ones march back to the encampment tonight," he said, provoking a nod before White Cockroach trotted back. Grey Worm surveyed the scene as his dozen reformed. Thirty Andal scouts, eight of them knights judging by their armor and tunics, lay dead around their campsite. They had been concealed well enough that ordinary men would have passed them by. But the Untouchables were not ordinary men.

White Cockroach and his remaining two Untouchables rejoined the dozen and Grey Worm gestured with his spear. Without another word the Untouchables moved out at the double in a loping trot that ate up the miles.

 **Author's note: I'm back! Thank you all for your patience, you would think that January would be a restful month after the holiday season but apparently life has other plans for me. Part-time employment coupled with two college classes eats up the time.**

 **Now, to answer the reviews!**

 **Sceonn: Unfortunately for humankind's dreams of peace on earth, realpolitik is often overrode by human emotion and the momentum of events. Look at how World War I started; the whole thing could have been averted if someone in power had simply had the balls to stand up in public and say "Goddamnit, hold on a minute, and let's talk this out like civilized people!" Unfortunately, people either confined themselves to their specialties (the various General Staffs) or didn't want to risk the sociopolitical fallout of backing down (the various politicians and leadership elements). In addition to which, Volantis has been spoiling for a fight with Westeros for years now, they're not going to pass up an opportunity to prove who the true masters of the world are.**

 **Nor is Westeros in a mood to back down. The deeper Varys digs, the more information he finds that Drogo was in cahoots with the Volantenes. And there are few rallying cries more potent than "Blood for blood!"**

 **Guest: Thank you! Dialogue is one of my weaknesses as a writer, unfortunately, which means that I tend to resort to my strengths as a narrator.**

 **Joffrey did very convincingly stake his claim as the most viable heir to the Westerlands. Tyrion will still drag it through the courts as much as he can, but no one's going to argue with a competent, respected young man with the proper pedigree and the prestige of being instrumental in a famous victory.**

 **The Stormlands don't have that many places conducive to city formation; a lot of it's forest or highland. In addition to which, Shipbreaker Bay's weather is too unpredictable to allow for the development of a major port. A lot of the Stormlands' maritime trade goes out through Stonehelm. As for Duskendale, from what I recall, Aerys the Mad pretty well trashed the place after the Defiance, which gave Maidenpool a leg up on the competition.**

 **Aegon may have dropped Tobho Mott a line to the effect that he, Aegon, would consider it a personal favor if Lord Dayne was given the friends and family discount. And Tywin knows better than to interfere in a matter of honor when the parties involved are House Dayne and House Stark (i.e., the two most honor-fixated houses on the continent). Offering to purchase a sword meant as a gift of honor would be unspeakably gauche.**

 **Wait and see, my friend.**

 **Guest: Thank you!**

 **When Tywin Lannister has charge of your education, you get properly educated even if you have only the two brain cells to rub together; Joffrey is a rather bright lad, if a bit eager to prove himself.**

 **From what I've read of military history, good infantry tends to beat good cavalry other things being equal. If the infantry get operationally outmaneuvered or someone on their side screws up, the cavalry can win, but it's usually the infantry's game to lose, provided they keep their heads and maintain formation.**

 **Charles Ceasar: Thanks, mate!**

 **Thank you all for the reviews. I will update as I can, but school, work, and applying for a new job take precedence, so I make no promises. Your patience is greatly appreciated, as ever.**

 **Cheers, all!**


	45. Chapter 45

_The Battle of Swinford Crossroads began largely by accident. A Volantene cavalry division which had taken a wrong turn off its line of march had only found out that it was off-course after an irate message from the Volantene commander found them ten miles from where they were supposed to be. Consequently, the division had turned east, thinking to meet with its counterparts at Uxford Tavern._

 _Unfortunately, to do so, the column would have to turn east at Swinford Crossroads, which had been occupied the day before by a mixed brigade of Dornish, Riverlander, and Stormlander light horse and mounted infantry. The Volantenes, befuddled at the presence of an unexpected enemy, and the Westerosi, alarmed at suddenly facing a force that outnumbered them by an estimated factor of six and probably more, both sent couriers rushing for help, and the columns of soldiery converged. The first day of the battle was taken up by skirmishing and maneuvering, but the second day would take on the character of an encounter battle as the first regular columns arrived . . ._

"They're coming down that road yonder," shouted the Dornish horseman, waving behind him with his scimitar. "Heavy infantry, pike and crossbowmen. No new cavalry that I can see."

Oberyn nodded. "How many?" he asked.

"Five thousand at least," the horseman replied. "Maybe six."

"Very well," Oberyn said calmly. "Carry on, corporal, and give my regards to your commander." The horseman saluted with his scimitar and sped away as Oberyn turned to his staff. "Orders; the first and second brigades to go in at once and stop the enemy in place. The third brigade to deploy here and await orders to support either of the first two brigades. Go, boys, go!" As his staff scattered to relay his orders, Oberyn turned his attention back to the terrain. The village of Swinford lay on the intersection of seven major roads, or what passed for such in the Disputed Lands. These roads led here because this was the only stable ford across the Willowflood Stream for twenty miles in either direction. The Willowflood was hardly the Trident or the Mander, but its steep sides and swift current made it a significant obstacle for armies.

But the Willowflood was not the most dramatic feature of the local terrain. By some freak of geology there were no less than three large ridges and seven hills within three miles of the ford. The one Oberyn was standing on now, named Temple Ridge after the small temple to R'hllor on its southern portion, was quite tall, especially to a son of the flat desert lands like Oberyn, but the ridge just northwest of the village, dubbed Graveyard Ridge after the little cemetery atop the nearby hill, was the better defensive position if Oberyn was any judge, although it was only about a third the height of Temple Ridge. An army lodged on Graveyard Ridge, especially with strong forces on the nearby hills to anchor the line, would be very difficult to dislodge indeed.

Oberyn settled his mind on the decision and turned to one of his pages. "Take a message," he said, waiting for the teenaged boy to pull out parchment, pen, and ink before beginning to dictate. "'Your Majesty, I have engaged a division of Volantene infantry at Swinford Crossroads and by the cavalry's report of enemy messengers departing at speed yesterday, I must conclude that the main force of the Volantene army is marching here at speed. I therefore recommend that the army concentrate at Swinford Crossroads as soon as may be, as the ground appears favorable for battle.'" He sketched a hasty map of the area around the village, read over the message to confirm its contents, signed it, and passed it to a courier. "For the King's hand and no other," he said, acknowledging the young man's hasty nod before he spurred away in a cloud of dust. Oberyn watched his leading brigades meet the Volantenes with the telltale rippling crash of two crowds slamming into each other and turned to another courier. "The Stormlanders are up the Crowston road somewhere," he said. "Find them, tell them the situation, and tell them to come on at the double, because if the Volantenes reinforce here before we do, there will be hell to pay." The courier nodded and cantered away as Oberyn turned back to the fight. The Royal Army of Dorne was hardly the largest of Westeros's armies, but it made up for being a lightweight by diligent training and an emphasis on flexibility and coordination. Oberyn simply prayed that would be enough to hold the Volantenes at bay and keep casualties to a minimum until they could be reinforced.

 _The Dornish brigades did excellent work in stymieing the Volantene advance. The sharp repulse they inflicted on the Volantenes (a division of infantry from the subject city of Volon Therys) yielded a stand-off that lasted until shortly after one in the afternoon, when reinforcements for both sides started to arrive . . ._

Robert Baratheon trotted up to Oberyn and tapped gauntlets with the slighter man. "Had a fine start already, I see!" he boomed, eyeing the corpse-strewn ground where Oberyn's Dornishmen had stymied the Volantenes. "Do you need reinforcements along that line, or do you want us to fall in on your flank?"

Oberyn unfolded the crude map he had sketched of the area around Swinford Crossroads. "By your leave, Lord Baratheon, I would have you deploy your men on my right flank so that we form a crescent," he said, indicating the proposed sweep of forces southeast of the town. "At last report, the Volantene's main columns were down these three roads headed south and east," he traced the Kilburgh Pike, the Carburn Road, and the Ringden Pike. "By positioning your men so, we can at least delay them until the rest of the army arrives."

Robert nodded. "If they can be held, my lads'll hold 'em, never fear. And please, call me Robert; you're practically family after all!" This last was said with a hearty laugh and a clap on the pauldron that would have left Oberyn with a bone bruise if his own shoulders hadn't been made of steel and whalebone. He turned to his men and roared, "Follow me, boys, I'll show you where to go!" and the Stormlanders clattered off at the trot, three thousand knights and men-at-arms, six thousand heavy infantry, and seven thousand archers. They were the Company of the Storm, and they were men molded in their lord's image.

Robert Baratheon had aged somewhat from the knightly paragon that he had been in the Rebellion. His torso, formerly shaped like an inverted triangle, now more closely resembled a rectangle, not having much in the way of contour between shoulders and thighs. His beard still bristled ferociously and his hair still flowed down to his shoulders, but their former blackness was liberally shot through with gray. His face, still handsome though it was, was lined with wrinkles, his rugged jaw had developed a jowl, and his nose was crooked from being thrice broken in practice. His soon-to-be goodbrother's detractors, Oberyn knew, compared him to a hog, with some accuracy. That being said, there were hogs and there were _hogs_.

There was a world of difference between the domestic pig in his sty, the butt of ridicule, and the wild boar in his deepwood lair, the hunting of which killed or maimed at least one nobleman a year and often two or three.

With Robert on his flank, Oberyn could breathe a little easier. But he still felt time marching on and he turned back northward. He had never been particularly devout but still he prayed: _Oh gods, give me the rest of the army or give me night._

XXX

Aeragar Tartheon, Commander of Ten Thousand in the Grand Army of Volantis, surveyed the battlefield from the oak tree-studded hill southeast of Swinford Crossroads and cut off Rhaevon Galeneos's explanations with a curt gesture. "Have done with your excuses," he ordered peremptorily. "You were overconfident and the Andals bloodied your nose for you. Well and so; we'll see how the barbarians handle fighting on two sides at once. You will lead your men down the Ireton Road on my signal and I will attack them from here and the Carburn Road. Go and prepare your men."

On any other occasion, such language would have been cause for a duel, but two things prevented Rhaevon from drawing his sword. The first was that Aeragar was famed in the Old City for his blade-skill, while Rhaevon had spent his days in his father's countinghouse. The second was that Rhaevon was a mere Commander of Five Thousand, given command of a division to flatter the elephants, and the proclaimed and demonstrated punishment for mutiny was extreme; Rhaevon might be a nobleman, but that would merely ensure that he was beheaded instead of flogged to death. So he ducked his head in a short bow and reined his horse around to rejoin his battered division. Aeragar turned back to the field and considered. The geography was not promising, but any obstacle could be overcome if only one were sufficiently determined. What was more; he had two of the largest divisions in the Grand Army under his command, nearly twenty-two thousand men. And a slave swordsman from Yunkai, bought by the hundred for less than the price of their gear, could kill you just as dead as an Unsullied.

Aeragar gestured to his trumpeters, provoking a chorus of brassy screams. It was past time to remind these uncouth barbarians who the true power in the world was.

 _When the fighting resumed at around the second hour past noon, it immediately became clear that the Westerosi were overmatched. The Dornish and the Stormlanders only gave ground slowly and contested every foot, but the Volantenes enjoyed two advantages. Firstly, the division attacking the Dornish had been reinforced and now had sufficient combat power to gain ground. Secondly, the farmland south of the town that the Stormlanders had been sent to hold was bereft of significant obstacles and they were facing half again their number. Indeed, the Stormlanders can only be judged to have held as long as they did due to their superior equipment and the leadership of Lord Robert Baratheon . . ._

Robert knocked up the visor of his helmet with his left hand and greedily sucked down air. He had led four charges already, rocking the Volantenes back on their heels to allow his men to fall back, and the late spring heat was taking its toll. In his youth, this sort of thing would have been easy, but he would never see forty again and experience was a poor replacement for raw stamina.

His men, his beautiful Company, were in little better condition. The heavy infantry, billmen and halberdiers mainly, were staggering along in their half-armor, although discipline and pride kept them in ranks. The archers had emptied their quivers three times already, shooting as only the bowmen of the Dornish Marches could shoot, but the army's main supply train might as well have been on the moon for all the good it did his men here and now; they were down to half a dozen arrows apiece, if that. His cavalry, the stern knights and hard-bitten men-at-arms of the Stormland houses, were as worn as he was, their horses blowing hard and streaked with foam. They had no lances left, the last had broken two charges ago, and sword and axe were notched.

But the price they had exacted from the enemy had been steep. The slave soldiers lay in windrows where the arrow-storms had fallen, in drifts where they had met the infantry, and in mats where the cavalry had charged. If they still came on, it was largely due to the unstinting efforts of the Volantene officers, who urged them on with whips and curses and did not hesitate to saber the laggards.

Even as Robert watched, the slave soldiers reformed their ranks and began to trudge forward. "Why, my boys, I am surprised at you!" he shouted, drawing puzzled looks from those men within reach of his still-stentorian voice. "Our hospitality must have been lacking the last time our guests paid a visit; see how slowly they come!" he gestured with his gore-crusted war hammer. "We must give them a proper welcome when they arrive, to soothe their hurt feelings! What say you, my lads, shall we show them how the Stormlands welcomes foreign dignitaries?!" The uproar of harsh laughter and the hoarse cheers that answered him were gratifying, but Robert was too old to let such plaudits go to his head. His men could stand maybe one more onslaught and that would be all. Flesh and bone could only endure so much, however willing the spirit might be. He gestured to his son Steffon, who had never strayed more than ten feet from his side the whole day. "Son, take twenty men, ride into the town, and get some fires going. We're going to make one more stand here, like we've been doing, but after that, we'll have to run like buggery to Graveyard Hill if we want to see tomorrow. So when you see me and the rest of the knights come past you through the town, start firing it. That should keep the slaver bastards off our backs for a time."

"Will they not send cavalry after you, father?" Steffon asked, his gray eyes, so like Lyanna's, lit with a wild gleam. The boy had seen action before but nothing like this slaughterhouse. Robert hadn't seen the like since Twinoak.

"They would if they had any left, lad, but we've seen to that," Robert said, nodding. "If their horse haven't counter-charged us the last two times, they won't come after us this time, especially not through a burning town. Now go, lad, go!" Steffon nodded and turned his horse away, hailing a squad of infantrymen and leading them into the town. Robert didn't pray to the gods for his son to be safe (safety, he knew, did not exist on a battlefield), but rather warned the Stranger that if he tried anything with his boy, then he would have Robert Baratheon to reckon with. He kissed the haft of his war hammer for luck, turned to his men, and roared out, "One more stand here, lads, as long as you can! Fury of the Storm! Fury for the King!"

"FURY FOR THE KING!" his men bellowed back.

XXX

Oberyn saw his left hand brigade being to fragment and felt a terrible calm descend on his soul. His army had fought magnificently, from the gully-cut farmland beyond the town's immediate hinterland to Temple Ridge, but it had reached the end of its tether half an hour ago. He had no reserves left, nothing with which to plug the gap. Nothing but himself and his household men.

He turned to his page, the only one of five who had not been dispatched with urgent messages for reinforcements, and handed him a purse. "The coin is yours," he said, "the letters are for the King, for my Lady Ellaria, and for my daughters. Go." The page accepted the purse, swallowing in fearful comprehension, and opened and closed his mouth twice before finally saluting with fist to chest and putting spurs to his horse. Oberyn then turned to a courier and said, "Pass the word; all units are to break contact under cover of imminent countercharge." As the courier sped away, Oberyn turned next to his household men. "I am going to plug that gap," he said simply, jerking his head behind him at the disintegrating brigade. "I will do it alone if I must, but I would prefer company. Are you with me?" His household men, many of them veterans of ten years or more in his service, responded with a short, crashing shout of affirmation, like the bark of a giant hound. Oberyn bowed in the saddle, accepted his spear, and wheeled his horse around as his men leveled their own spears. "The troop will advance," he said, as calmly as if he were on parade. "Walk March!"

Oberyn Martell had been called many things in his life. Murderer, poisoner, philanderer, madman, dabbler in the dark arts, and blasphemer were only some of the more polite appellations that he had accrued over the course of his fifty-one years. There were two accusations, however, that no one had ever levelled at him. No one had ever called him a coward, and no one had ever claimed that the Red Viper couldn't fight.

In that hour, his last in the living world, Oberyn Nymeros Martell demonstrated why that was so.

 _Prince Oberyn's suicidal charge into the Volantene forces sufficiently disordered them that the rest of the Dornish army was able to break contact and gain a few hundred yards head start, which allowed the majority of them to reach Graveyard Ridge and relative safety behind the rest of the Royal Army, which had finally started making its way onto the field . . ._

Eddard Stark rode up to Robert Baratheon and tapped gauntlets with him. "Robert, what's the situation?" he asked, surveying his goodbrother's gore-spattered armor and blown warhorse.

"We're fought out, Ned," Robert said plainly. "We've pretty well torn the guts out of three Volantene divisions, but I've lost a fourth of my men and the Dornish have lost around a third. If we don't get reinforcements, we'll have to withdraw by midnight at latest to put distance between us and here before those bastards send a pursuit after us."

"Don't fret yourself, Robert, the rest of the army's hot on my heels," Eddard answered, glancing over to where the Dornish had collapsed along the ridge. "Where's Oberyn?"

"Charging a Volantene battalion with his household men, last anyone saw him," Robert answered. "If he's not dead by now, he's certainly a prisoner. Young Quentyn has taken command, but it's Anders who's really in charge, if anyone is."

Eddard nodded; Quentyn Martell was young still and relatively untried, for him to lean on his foster-father's experience was natural. "My Northerners and the Guards brigade should arrive sometime in the next hour; I'll have them relieve the Dornish along the ridge here. How far north does the ridge extend?"

"At least a mile," Robert replied. "Probably more. It's good ground, Ned, best I've seen to fight on since we passed Catblood Creek."

Ned nodded. "Alright, then," he said definitively. "If the Volantenes oblige us, we'll fight them here." He pulled out Oberyn's hastily drawn map from his saddlebag. "We'll have to wait for dawn to make any definitive plans, but just looking at this gives me some ideas . . ."

 _By dawn, two-thirds of the Royal Army of Westeros would line Graveyard Ridge, Graveyard Hill, and Jackal Hill. Across from them, three-quarters of the Grand Army of Volantis would eventually assemble on a front that stretched the length of Temple Ridge and around the southern edge of Swinford town. The stage was set for the largest battle in the Essos since the Century of Blood . . ._

\- _A Time For Courage: The Battle of Swinford Crossroads_ by Maester Joffrey, published 1779 AC

 **Author note: (In Ahnold Schwahzeneggah voice) Ah'm Bahk! And thus passes the first round of the Great Westeros-Volantis Grudge Match! The next few chapters will comprise the endgame of this story, after which there will be at least one epilogue chapter before the story wraps up. Thank you all for joining me on the ride, and I hope you find the Battle of Swinford Crossroads suitably epic.**

 **Now on to the reviews:**

 **Naruto9tail: I'm afraid Grey Worm is simply too able a soldier for the Astaporians to leave him out of the Untouchables program.**

 **My philosophy is that it's better to let people's imaginations fill in the blanks when it comes to threats. Of course, some people aren't imaginative enough for that to work, but still . . .**

 **Actually, Ygritte is Cregan's (Brandon's eldest son and heir to Winterfell) old paramour. She and Cregan had to part ways after Cregan got betrothed to Wynafryd Manderly, but there are fond memories on both sides.**

 **Wait and see, my friend, wait and see.**

 **Charles Ceasar: Thank you!**

 **Guest: True, that.**

 **Guest: Thank you!**

 **Yeah, when armies march, the people they come across tend to suffer for it, if only because soldiers like to augment their rations with fresh meat and vegetables. Doubly so when the armies in question consider themselves to be** ** _in partibum infidelis._**

 **Thank you all for reading, and thank you again for your patience with the irregular upload schedule. Stay tuned!**


	46. Chapter 46

_By daybreak of the second day, two-thirds of the Royal Army of Westeros was on the field. What was left of the Company of the Storm and the Royal Army of Dorne were stationed on Jackal Hill, guarding the Westerosi right flank. Next to them, the Guards Brigade was stationed on Graveyard Hill, while the Army of the North held Graveyard Ridge. The Royal Army of the Vale was positioned on the left flank of the army, with its flank anchored on Cedar Hill, a low elevation just north of where Graveyard Ridge terminated. The contingents from the Riverlands and the Westerlands were placed in reserve behind Graveyard Ridge. The Royal Army of the Reach was still some hours away, despite marching for some twenty hours the day before._

 _Across from them, the Grand Army of Volantis was missing two important components. The first, the division of Unsullied commanded by Gaenar Maegyr, the Triarch's second son, was a full day's march away, even for Unsullied, but the division of Matavor Qartigar, comprised of citizen volunteers from Volantis itself, was trickling in by the hour. In order to buy time for his army to concentrate, and to finalize his plans, Daegar Tartheon, who as Master of Soldiers held supreme command over Volantis's armies, sent out a force of cavalry to undertake a reconnaissance in force . . ._

Visegon Gonnalys was many things. He was the eldest son of a family that held middling status among the Old Blood of Volantis, which meant that he was intimately familiar with the tangled web of law, custom, and factional tension that governed the lives of the Volantene nobility. He was a poet and orator of some note, both of which had aided his rise to the position of ward lieutenant in the Young Tigers. He was a duelist of no small skill, thanks to his popularity with the young ladies of his class and his consequent unpopularity with their brothers and cousins. And since acquiring a commission as a Commander of One Thousand in the cavalry of Volantis, he had gained some skill at commanding the sometimes turbulent mix of freedmen, sellswords, and minor citizens who made up the rank and file of his regiment.

He was not, however, quite the equal of whoever was commanding the Andal light horse in this quarter of the battlefield. Visegon's orders (direct from the Master of Soldiers!) were to scout out the Andal dispositions, ascertain any weaknesses, and wear down the Andal cavalry screen.

Objectively, Visegon knew that the Andals were having just as much difficulty penetrating his force as he was having penetrating theirs. The late spring sun beat down equally hot on them both, the dust that thousands of horses kicked up obscured their sight as much as it did his. And for all the Andals' skill in harrying his horsemen with slashing sallies, each foray left Andal horsemen dead or wounded.

Visegon, however, was not in an objective frame of mind.

"Either break through them or go around them and get past them that way," he snarled at a hapless Commander of One Hundred. "The barbarians have not the strength to be everywhere at once in sufficient strength to defeat you. Make an opening."

"But sir," his subordinate protested, "we've been trying to do just that for the past two hours and had no luck at all!"

"Then quit the field and let your Commanders of Fifty do the job. I do not care which option you choose, so long as you cease to waste my time."

Visegon turned away from his spluttering junior officer and summoned a galloper with a crook of his finger. "Tell Commander of One Hundred Callaris," he said, watching a company of Volantene horsemen riding back towards their own lines for the eighth time that day, "that he is to cease beating his head against a wall and find a way around those damned archers. Inform him that there is a perfectly serviceable gully just off his left that appears to be uncovered."

XXX

Robb Stark, younger son of the Lord Marshal and senior Captain of Horse in the Royal Corps of Guides, sipped slowly from a canteen. The morning had been a maelstrom of light cavalry warfare as the Volantenes probed the front with what had to be at least half of the cavalry at their disposal. Robb had been doing his best with the two mounted and three foot companies of the Guides that he had been given command of to cover the left front of the Royal Army, but his men were being steadily ground down. Whoever was commanding the Volantene horsemen was being damnably insistent.

"Can Captain Spenler hold his front against the Volantenes if they come at him again?" he asked the galloper, a swarthy Dornishman.

The galloper shrugged. "He will hold if the gods will it so, Captain, but I doubt it. His men are down to three arrows each and no more, and the troop covering him is on the edge of exhausting their horses."

Robb concealed a grimace by taking another slow sip from the canteen. Captain Spenler's company was holding a boulder heap just shy of where the southern end of Graveyard Ridge met Cedar Hill, and which lay within easy striking distance of the Royal Army of the Vale's flank. If they had to retreat, then the Volantenes would be able to scout out the Westerosi positions there, contrary to his orders.

Even so, there was nothing else for it. Better to maintain his forces as much as possible than let them be shattered completely. That being said, Robb mused, eyeing Cedar Hill, better still to ward off any Volantene eyes looking for the extreme flank of the Westerosi line. "Tell Captain Spenler," he said finally, "that he has permission to fall back on Cedar Hill if he is hard pressed. Upon doing so, he is to hold Cedar Hill until further notice; I will arrange for him to receive resupply and reinforcement as they become available."

The galloper saluted and sped off, his mount kicking up a rooster tail of dust. Robb turned in the saddle to another galloper. "Inform Ser Arryn that my men can no longer cover his left front effectively," he said. "I recommend that he immediately send out any skirmishing force he has to cover that sector of his front."

XXX

"We've found their main infantry line!" the trooper blurted out as he reined his horse to a halt in front of Visegon. Leaping from the saddle, he drew his dagger and began to sketch on the ground. "Just past this boulder pile here is the southern end of that ridge that starts just outside of the town. We saw heavy infantry formed up in ranks along the ridge-line; pikes and crossbows for the most part, as well as lighter spearmen."

Visegon nodded. "How far north does their line extend?" he asked, gesturing at the end of the line the trooper had sketched. "Are there troops past the end of the ridge?"

"None that we could see, sir," the trooper said. "No heavy troops, anyway; some of their skirmishers retired onto this hill just next to the ridge."

Visegon felt triumph flood through him. "Galloper!" he shouted, turning to his staff. "Message to the Master of Soldiers; we have found the enemy's flank on the northern terminus of Graveyard Ridge. The enemy is stationed along the ridgeline in strength but does not hold Cedar Hill in any force. If we attack in this sector with any dispatch, we can turn the enemy's flank and crush them like an eggshell. Do you have all that?" At the galloper's nod and salute he waved his arms briskly. "Then go, man, go! Ride like the wind!" As the galloper spurred away, Visegon turned to his staff. "Send word to all companies to cease active probing but stay in contact with the enemy," he said. "Act like we are on our last legs and losing interest in this sector."

XXX

Harrold Arryn was an unhappy soul. As long as he could remember, he had known that he was meant to be the true heir of the Vale. Grandfather Jon had only taken Lysa Tully to wife as a favor to her father; he had had two heirs already and no need of another. When Uncle Denys had died at Twinoak, it had left Harrold's father as the heir to the Eyrie and the Vale, and Harrold after him.

And then Robert, small, sniveling, shaking Robert, had had the bad manners to survive being born and when his continued survival became more or less assured at the age of five, Harrold was reduced from being an heir presumptive to the Vale to a simple son of a cadet branch. He had been ten when he learned that his birthright had been effectively stolen and the unfairness of it had chafed at him ever since.

Fortunately, there were those in the Vale who recognized the need for the Vale to be ruled by a strong lord and not a sniveling whelp. Lady Waynwood, Lord Hunter, Lord Belmore, Lord Corbray, and Ser Templeton had all promised their support to his father when Grandfather died and Lysa Tully lost her reason. The only reason Harrold was not heir apparent of the Vale in all but name was that the King had sent the Stark's pet demon to install Lord Royce as regent while one of his judges examined the matter.

All, however, was not lost. As Lady Waynwood had put it, "Heroism is so much more attractive than madness." And so Harrold had prayed for a war that he could prove his fitness for lordship in, and lo, a war had been given unto him. Clearly, the gods had been paying attention, especially since he had been given command of the Royal Army of the Vale.

That said, there was still much to complain about.

"Look at this," he snapped, gesturing at the ground that he had stationed on. "Damned marshland, trees, and that damned boulder pile. Not fit for infantry, forget knights. Worst spot on the whole damned line."

Artos Stark swiped sweat off his brow with his leather-palmed gauntlet. "You think Robert Baratheon and Lord Yronwood are happy with Jackal Hill?" he asked dryly. "The trees are even thicker there. I agree the ground's not ideal but no ground is; the gods didn't make the earth that way."

Harrold spat. "Let me show you a real position, one where we can really give the Volantenes a proper welcome." He led the eldest Stark cadet forward of the lines, through the swampy ground and past a small wheatfield. A short arrow-flight away was a small knoll crowned by a pear orchard. Archers from the Guides skulked among the trees, but the nearest Volantenes were keeping their distance.

Harrold led Artos onto the knoll and gestured at the open fields just before it. "Look at this, man! Plenty of open ground, plenty of open sightlines, lots of room for our knights and archers to work in. If I advanced my forces to here, we could cut the Volantenes all to pieces."

Artos scanned the ground for a long moment and eventually shook his head. "I don't buy it," he said. "I'll grant you that the ground's splendid for cavalry, nice and flat. But look you." He gestured back the way they had come. "If you advanced your men out this far, you'd pull yourself away from the Northerners by at least a mile, leave a gap you could sail a ship through. And you'd have a gap just as long between the end of your line and Cedar Hill, there, unless you spread your men out like too little butter over too much bread."

"But you agree that this position is better for cavalry?" Harrold pressed.

"Aye, I do," Artos agreed, "but it's too exposed to use. You won't just have your flanks in the air; you'll be out in a salient. Look." Artos dismounted and sketched in the dirt with his daggerpoint. "With your men pushed forward in a triangle like this, you'll be vulnerable to attack from both flanks at once. What's more, the length of your line would double, at least. You'd be spread too thin to hold it against a serious attack."

Harrold snorted. "That assumes the Volantenes have the ability to mount a serious attack. I heard that they had to whip their slaves into the fray yesterday."

"Aye, after the Dornish and the Stormlanders had spent most of a day beating the shit out of them," Artos said, remounting. "Harry, I can't recommend you bringing your army out here. I'll take your views to the king, but I won't endorse them."

Harrold concealed dismay and anger. He had hoped to win Artos' endorsement for moving his men out to the pear orchard, but apparently learning war at his father's side had given the man a tradesman's approach to war; cautious and miserly, instead of the boldness that was the true hallmark of a knight.

Of course, Artos wasn't a knight, for all he was trained and equipped as one. Allowances had to be made.

"I'll give you another reason to not move your men out here," Artos said, gesturing back the way they had come. "If the Volantenes pushed you out of this position and you had to retreat, you'd have to fall back through all that bad ground, with their horse riding you down and their infantry hot behind. Withdrawing from here could turn into a complete debacle."

Harrold drew himself up and looked down his beaky Arryn nose at the Stark. "The Royal Army of the Vale will not withdraw."

 _By the second hour past noon, Tartheon had come to a decision. He would send the division of Matavor Qartigar, reinforced by two other divisions of slave soldiers, against the Westerosi left on Graveyard Ridge, while another division attacked Jackal Hill on the Westerosi right. His ultimate hope was to overwhelm one of the Westerosi flanks so that the Grand Army would be able to encircle and destroy them._

 _In the meantime, Harrold Arryn moved the Royal Army of the Vale forward to the pear orchard, thus presenting the first obstacle to the Volantene plan of attack . . ._

Matavor Qartigar glared at Visegon accusingly. "I believe you said that their line was on the ridge," he said coldly. "Clearly, it is not."

"Blame the barbarians," Visegon shot back, "they're the ones who moved off the high ground." Visegon didn't know what had possessed the Andals to move forward to the pear orchard, but there they were. "I sent you word that they were moving forward," he continued, "so if you came on anyway it's your own fault for being heedless."

Qartigar's burning gaze betokened a challenge as soon as the war was ended and the strictures against dueling were relaxed. "No matter," he ground out eventually. "They're in front of us; we'll see how tough they are against free men." He turned away and gestured forward his division. Qartigar's ten thousand were volunteers from the freemen and minor citizenry of Volantis and its environs, and so considered themselves to the Grand Army's true elite. Not for them the harsh discipline and the scourge-wielding officers of the slave-soldiers; their officers had been elected from the ranks and discipline was levied by consent as much as by main force.

As a result, they had been an interminable headache on the march. Hopefully they would redeem themselves in battle. And if not . . . Visegon shrugged. All the volunteers had to do was clear the way for the ten thousand slave-soldiers who came after them. The slave-soldiers were no great slayers, being sword and spear men from Yunkai or Meereen or Ghis bought by the hundred for the price of their armor and weapons, but weight of numbers would tell.

XXX

Eddard Stark restrained himself from slashing Harrold Arryn out of the saddle with an effort of will. "Harrold," he ground out instead, "you're too far out. You've compromised our whole position." He looked back from the pear orchard down the length of the laughably indefensible salient. "If the Volantenes attack you from both sides, you'll lose your infantry, if not your whole force."

Harrold Arryn's eyes were clouded with doubt, but he still tried to bluster through. "This is a better position than the one I left," he spluttered. "Flatter ground, more open for my knights."

"Harrold, this _is_ flatter and more open ground than your position," Eddard said coldly. "There is even flatter and more open ground in front of you. If you care to march right past the Volantene army, you'll find consistently flatter and more open ground all the way to the banks of the Rhoyne. Damn it, boy, this is _neutral_ ground. You can't hold it and neither can the enemy."

Harrold's face fell as the Lord Marshal's tone struck home. "I can withdraw," he finally said in a subdued voice.

"I wish to the gods you could but the enemy won't let you," Eddard snapped, pointing at the wave of Volantene troops exiting the trees at the base of Temple Ridge. His hand snaked out and caught Harrold by the lip of his bevor, dragging him close to the Lord Marshal's face. "I'll bring up the reinforcements," he ground out, "and establish a line to your rear, on the ground _you_ were supposed to hold. _You_ will hold them here as long as you can and give ground as slowly as you can; you volunteered to be the forlorn hope, the least you can do is play the part properly. I will need at least an hour to close the gap behind you, so an hour you will give me. And may all the gods help you, because you'll need them to." He released Harrold's bevor and cantered away, snapping out orders to his gallopers. So much for the neat and tidy battle plan that he had spent half the night devising.

XXX

"Hold them, boys!" Ser Mychel Redfort roared, lashing out with his longsword against the knot of Volantene infantrymen crowding down the narrow defile between two boulders that Mychel and a knot of billmen were plugging with their bodies. The Volantenes had abandoned their pikes and resorted to shortsword and buckler in the face of the tangled heap of boulders, but what they lacked in blade skill they were making up for in numbers. Mychel's own three hundred Redfort men had lost at least half their number already, and the two hundred Belmore men with him were in even worse state. As for the half-company of Guides that they had joined on the boulder pile, the last five were crouched on the boulder just behind him emptying their quivers as fast as they could shoot.

Mychel gritted his teeth as his blade speared through the last Volantene's neck. His men had painted the boulders red with slaver blood and stacked their bodies like cordwood in the defiles between the boulders, but each wave of men had lapped ever higher. Even as he leaned on his sword and sought to catch his breath he heard the coughing roar of the Volantene war-shout start up again.

Ser Mychel Redfort was a typical product of his class and his time. He was largely ignorant of anything that did not somehow involve horses, hunting, or war. He believed that his lands, his House, and his people were the best of all possible lands, Houses, and people. And he knew with the same bone-deep knowledge most people have of their conceptions of the world that the fact of his birth made him superior to the common run of men. A later age, with justice, would consider him a boneheaded, ignorant bigot, advanced from the mountain clansmen who plagued his homeland only in that he abhorred human sacrifice; the Burned Men, most notoriously, had no such qualms.

That said, he was not without his redeeming qualities. That which he loved, he loved fiercely and obstinately, even to the point of finding a way to support his paramour and their bastard daughter by dint of ruthless economy with his meager incomes (the fact that he was married mattered little in such calculus; as was usual for his class in that age, his marriage had been a political matter. Forbye, the two children he had given his wife and the distance at which he and Mya conducted their affair left her little grounds to complain.). In defense of what was his, he would go to lengths that a later and more civilized age could scarcely fathom; the last man to make unwanted advances on Mya had died on Mychel's sword. Where his loyalty was given, it was given unreservedly and backed with lance and sword; he had pledged himself to Harrold Arryn at a young age, and had ridden with him against Lysa Tully's supporters before the king had intervened. And, most importantly, he was notably contemptuous of danger even in that age of daredevils.

Mychel Redfort had grown up knowing that his lot in life was to fight and most likely to die in the service of his liege-lord and his king; being a knight mean that you accepted that likelihood of your own will. When he had been given the honor of holding the extreme left of the Royal Army's position, he had sworn to hold it at any hazard. With honor at stake in such a way, he would rather be cut to pieces than give up his position.

He fingered the scarf Mya had given him before he took ship for Myr, turned to his men, and roared, "Here they come again, boys! Give them the same welcome we gave their mates! Strong as Stone!"

"Strong as Stone!" his men shouted back, making the boulders ring.

 _While Ser Mychel Redfort was fighting for his life in the Rockheap, the main weight of the Volantene attack was landing on the center of the Royal Army of the Vale. Despite heroics of both leadership and personal martial ability by Harrold Arryn, Ser Lyn Corbray, Ser Vardis Egen, and Ser Andar Royce, the Pear Orchard was overrun by Qartigar's Second Battle, called "the Citizen's Battle" for the number of Volantene citizens in its ranks. Just to the left rear of the Pear Orchard, the Wheatfield changed hands three times before a Lannister brigade under Ser Addam Marbrand reinforced the Valemen and repelled the final two Volantene attempts to storm the position at the cost of thirty percent casualties. As Lord Jon Lynderly wrote to Tywin Lannister after the battle, "At Elborak, the Army of the West taught us how to fight like soldiers. In the Wheatfield, they taught us how to die like soldiers."_

 _Behind the Pear Orchard, however, the Citizen's Battle pressed on._

Harrold Arryn felt the abyss open beneath him. All around him the Royal Army of the Vale was in flight. Here and there pockets of men were still in ranks around junior officers and sergeants, maintaining formation and occasionally turning back to fight, but the rest of his lovely army had disintegrated, streaming back to the rear in droves of panicked men. All of his exhortations, all of his efforts to stem the tide, had fallen on deaf ears. And behind them, the Volantenes came on at the trot, baying like hounds as they drove the Valemen before them.

The blood pounded in Harrold's ears as his stomach knotted. There was no denying it; his army had been defeated and it was his fault. He had given the order to advance to that damned orchard. Nothing he could do could save him from the censure that would fall upon his head for this.

Then, as he abandoned hope, he saw the brigade of Volantene cavalry spurring ahead of their foot. Medium cavalry, these, men wearing half-armor and carrying lighter versions of the Westerosi lance riding unbarded horses, meant to combine the mobility of Dothraki-style light horse with the hitting power of Andal knights. If they went unchecked, they would complete the rout and ride the Royal Army of the Vale into utter ruin.

Harrold Arryn needed only a split-second to make his decision. He might not be able to rally a fleeing army, but he was one of the five best lancers in the Vale, which meant that he was one of the ten or twenty best lancers in the world. And while his army had disintegrated around him, his personal company of a hundred knights and their squires was still at his back and ready to fight, despite having already made three separate charges to try and restore the situation. What was more, they had had a few minutes to catch their breath and acquire fresh lances.

Harrold turned his horse around to face his knights. "I'm going to go fight those damned slaver bastards," he said savagely, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the Volantene horsemen, "and I'm going to teach them how to be a proper knight instead of whatever half-baked mess they are. Will I have to do it alone?" The short cheer his knights sent up made Harrold's eyes sting. He clanked his gauntleted fist on his breastplate in salute, closed his visor, took a lance from his squire, and turned his horse back around.

"Forward!" he shouted, lifting his lance upward once to set the company in motion, and as his horse started forward at the trot he felt his troubles drop away. There was no room for anything in a charge of lances but the horse, the lance, and the target. His fears, his hesitations, and, most blessedly of all, the crushing weight of his failures melted away as his horse trundled forward, followed by two hundred more. This was what he was born for, to lead heavy cavalry at the charge, and the pure _rightness_ of it filled him with a terrible serenity. It occurred to him that he would probably die as a result of this, and, in that moment, he decided that he didn't mind dying. Better to die, surely, than to live with the curse of infamy. He spurred his horse into a canter and couched his lance, his vision narrowing to the lance-point and the breastplate of the man he had chosen as his target, a swarthy fellow with outlandishly long mustachios. He retained just enough awareness to realize that he was roaring "For the gods and the king!" as the charge slammed home.

Taken together, Harrold Arryn, his horse, and their respective gear amounted to just over six hundred and eighty kilograms of mass, moving at more than six and a half meters per second. That combination of mass and speed, upon impacting the Volantene cavalryman by way of Harrold's lance-point, yielded more than four and a half thousand newtons of force. Given such an impact, it did not strictly matter that the Volantene's breastplate was able to withstand the point of Harrold's lance. The Volantene was all but blasted out of the saddle, unconscious even as his feet left the stirrups, and broke his neck when he hit the ground.

The same scene was repeated all along the line as the knights of the Vale struck home; nine times out of ten the heavier weight of metal and longer lance and greater skill of the Andal knights prevailed and the Volantene cavalry brigade was staggered. But the martial skills of the knights of Westeros did not end with the impact of the charge. Broken lances were discarded, swords were drawn and maces and axes and war hammers snatched from saddlebows, and the melee began. Here too, the advantage was with the Valemen. They did not have quite the weight of metal that their cousins of the Westerlands or the Reach did, having evolved in a military environment that saw as much hillside skirmishing as flatland brawling, but their weapons were still designed to punch through the steel plate armor of another knight and these men were veterans of dozens of cavalry fights. Against the Volantenes in their lighter armor, they wrought bloody execution.

In the epicenter of the whirling scrum of men and horses, Harrold Arryn's world was a maelstrom of clashing steel, like a forge-works filled with mad blacksmiths. With his visor closed, his vision was restricted to a slot no more than half an inch tall and he had no peripheral vision whatsoever. It seemed that every moment something hit him somewhere on his body, and he was suddenly desperately thirsty. He didn't care; the lowering cloud of his failures had been burned away by the grim exultation of slaughter. _This_ was his element, _this_ was how a knight fought, and _this_ , if need be, was how a knight died. In that hour, Harrold Arryn cleansed himself of his failures in the blood of the enemies of his people and his king and knew that, if he died, he would be given a hero's welcome in the halls of the Warrior.

He was weeping with joy when something hit him in the breastplate like the hammer of a god, smashed him out of the saddle to the ground, and his world went black.

XXX

Eddard Stark saw Harrold Arryn's banner go down and revised his opinion of the young Valeman from _idiot_ to _brave idiot who managed to do something useful_. Harrold's death ride, if nothing else, had comprehensively wrecked the Volantene cavalry force that had been poised to complete the ruin of the Royal Army of the Vale and removed the Volantenes capability to launch an immediate pursuit.

What was more, he had somehow managed to buy enough time for others to rectify his mistake. It had come down to bare minutes, but Eddard, his son Artos, Edmure Tully, and young Joffrey Lannister had managed to get reserves first into the Wheatfield and the boulder pile to salvage the extreme flank, and finally to mass enough men to launch a counterattack. Joffrey and Edmure had brought up their forces to the reverse slope of Graveyard Ridge to establish a blocking position, while Artos had pulled two brigades of his cousin Cregan's Northmen down the ridge to provide a flanking force. All that was needed was for the trap to be sprung.

As Eddard watched from his horse, the Volantene infantry began to slow as they toiled up the slope of the ridge. These men had fought hard at the Pear Orchard, and then pursued their fleeing enemies for more than a mile. Seasoned infantrymen, like the Guides or the Lannister brigades or the Northern regiments, would have pursued at their usual quick-march pace, a brisk walk in civilian terms, in order to maintain their stamina for any resistance that might be encountered ahead; speedy pursuit was what cavalry were for. The Volantenes, on the other hand, had pursued at the run, and men who try to run in armor for any length of time on a hot late-spring day quickly become exhausted men. What was more, their formations had become ragged, the orderly phalanxes of pikemen growing a tail of slower men and a bow wave of faster men, many of whom had discarded their pikes and drawn shortsword and buckler. Against routing men, such sloppiness could be gotten away with. Against formed and fresh troops still under discipline, however . . . Eddard turned in the saddle to where the spears of the Westerlands and the halberdiers of the Riverlands waited in their ranks and smiled wolfishly.

He turned his attention back to the Volantenes and saw them start to grind to a halt as they crested the ridge, standing like men who have stopped dead in sheer surprise. Eddard's smile broadened; the Volantenes had doubtless expected to crest the ridge to find a plain full of fleeing enemies and a clear and easy march around the flank of the Westerosi army. Instead, they found themselves facing some twenty-five thousand foot and eight thousand horse, freshly drawn up and ready for battle. Eddard could just hear the Volantenes complaining in their heads.

 _What?! Where did these bastards come from?! Are we supposed to beat the whole Westerosi army on our own?! Whose bright idea was this?!_

The Volantenes didn't have much more than half a minute to gape and grouse. As Eddard watched, the archers of the Westerlands and the Riverlands bent their bows and sent forth a blast of arrows that savaged the Volantene infantry on the ridgeline. Even as the archers loosed that first volley the heavy infantry was marching forward, the Western spearmen in a solid block of armored men behind a wall of shields flanked by companies of halberdiers under the blue trident on green of the Riverlands. Their advance wasn't the wild, plunging rush of the Volantenes either, but the briskly measured tread of men who knew enough to not get carried away by the fear and anger and exultation of battle. They only accelerated in the last ten yards, and the suddenly running phalanx hit the Volantenes like a giant battering ram that bowled them off the ridgeline.

Eddard gestured to his trumpeters and the sudden brassy screams of the trumpets sent three thousand Northern infantry trotting into the flank of the Volantenes. The Volantene infantry had fought hard, run harder, and had the ambrosia of victory turn to ashes in their very mouths by the unexpected counterattack. The sudden flank attack by three thousand Northmen, spearheaded by a company of Umber men wielding broad-bladed longaxes and roaring like bears, was entirely too much. The Volantenes broke and fled, and behind them the knights and men-at-arms of the West and the Riverlands broke into a canter as the pursuit began.

Eddard trotted after them as far as the Wheatfield before having his trumpeters sound the recall. The men of the Trident Guard and House Lannister's personal squadrons reined in first, having had the habit of discipline drummed into them by merciless sergeants for years, but even the lords and their fighting-tails of household and vassal knights drew rein quickly enough that Eddard was forced to nod in grudging approval. Evidently the Battle of Elborak and the march from Myr had sufficiently impressed the amateurs that they were willing to follow the lead of the professional soldiers. He turned his horse and trotted back to the ridge; he had work to do still.

 _While Stark was salvaging the Westerosi left flank, Robert Baratheon was holding Jackal Hill against an assault by the division of Jaerys Lenitheos . . ._

Besides his wife and his children, Robert Baratheon loved nothing so much as a good fight. Even aside from the battle-joy, there was something just purely _right_ about fighting a man face to face and discovering who was the better man by skill and strength of arms. The gods had made men to fight, as they had made wolves to hunt and fish to swim; in addition to which fighting was the reason Robert and his class _existed._

That being said, taking joy in a fight required that you be faced with men you could take pride in fighting. These slave soldiers, Robert decided as he swung his war hammer into the chest of yet another and smashed him off the barricade, were not such men. They had no skill, little strength, and only a grudging, mechanical discipline and the whips of their officers to drive them into the fight. Fighting them wasn't a joy, but a chore. A deadly dangerous chore, to be sure, as the wounds and occasional deaths on this side of the barricades attested, but no less monotonous for all that.

As the tide of slave soldiers receded, Robert surveyed the pile of dead on the far side of the barricade and shook his head disgustedly. He hadn't even needed to call on the Dornishmen, or on his brother Stannis for men from the Guards Brigade. The breast-high barricades of fallen timber, as well as the superior skill and equipment of his men, had made it more of a slaughter than a proper battle.

Robert Baratheon was a proud man, given to boasting in his cups. He decided however, looking along the line of barricades, that he would not boast of this day. There was no pride to be taken and no honor to be had in swatting flies.

 _With the destruction of Qartigar's attack and the repulse of Lenitheos' division, the day's fighting wound down, save for occasional sniping between the outposts of the two armies. The Westerosi had suffered heavily on their left flank; the Royal Army of the Vale was effectively destroyed as a fighting force. However, of the three divisions the Volantenes had committed across the whole battlefield that day, Qartigar's division suffered at least forty percent casualties, while the supporting division in his attack also suffered heavily. The Citizen's Battle, which had started the day with some two and a half thousand men, ended the day with less than a thousand men still with the colors and fit for duty. On Jackal Hill, a counter-charge by the Dornish had routed Lenitheos' division in a panic that was only stemmed by prodigious efforts from their officers. However, the two armies had not yet employed their full strength, and both Tartheon and King Aegon meant to fight it out . . ._

Aegon surveyed the men seated around the small room of the cottage he had appropriated for his headquarters. Joffrey Lannister and Edmure Tully looked quite pleased with themselves, understandably so, given their role in salvaging the left flank. Robert Baratheon, looking rather like a disgruntled boar, was sitting in a chair with his arms folded and his chin lowered onto his breastplate, evidently deep in thought. Eddard Stark and his son Artos looked more than a little frazzled; the two men had been in the thick of patching the left flank back together and the day's frantic activity was evidently wearing on them. Cregan Stark, only a little younger than Aegon himself, was holding himself with slightly self-conscious rigidity; he had to be aware that he was rather young to be entrusted with a senior command and had little martial reputation to speak of, especially in such a company as this gathering of eagles. Ser Andar Royce, Bronze Yohn's eldest son and the de facto leader of what remained of the Royal Army of the Vale with Harrold Arryn too wounded to continue in command, was deep in conversation with Quentyn Martell, who nominally headed the Dornish contingent; it was known that Quentyn tended to defer the judgment of Anders Yronwood. Garlan Tyrell, who commanded the Royal Army of the Reach, sat slightly off to one side; his men had not fought today, having begun to arrive about half an hour after the fighting had died down.

Aegon stood from his chair and waited for the conversation to die down, which it did rapidly. "My lords, good evening," he said. "Before we begin, I wish to thank you all for the service you have done today. By your efforts, you have frustrated what may have been the main effort of the enemy army." Aegon made sure to nod at Ser Andar, who relaxed a little from his tense posture; clearly the man had been expecting a rebuke for the collapse of the Valemen. "Colonel Barnes has the latest intelligence on the enemy army available to us, and I think it best we begin by learning what exactly we are up against. Colonel Barnes?" He gestured the Winter Soldier forward from where he had been leaning against the wall, his metal arm glinting in the light of the candles placed on the little table.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Barnes said. "My lords, through reconnaissance and prisoner interrogations, we have identified at least seven and possibly as many as ten Volantene divisions, each of which is supposed to contain between eight and ten thousand men at full strength. We are reasonably certain that at least four and perhaps as many as six of these divisions have been rendered combat-ineffective by dint of casualties sustained. However," Barnes continued, his voice grim, "we believe that the enemy has at least two and possibly three divisions that have yet to be committed, along with their war elephants. We therefore conclude that we may expect at least one more attack on the order of the one we experienced today, if not greater."

Garlan Tyrell raised a hand. "Colonel Barnes, are those divisions cavalry or infantry?" he asked.

"We believe them to be one of each," Barnes replied. "The cavalry division is apparently made up of Volantene nobles and volunteers from Slaver's Bay, while the infantry division may be the reported reinforced division of Unsullied." That brought a general wince; the men in this room may have had a poor opinion of Volantene soldiery in general and their slave soldiers in particular, but the reputation of the Unsullied was too fearsome to be easily dismissed. "Furthermore," Barnes continued, "we have learned from prisoner interrogations that the Volantene supply situation is tenuous at best. The picture we have developed of their supply chain is that the Volantene fleet is wholly engaged in transporting supplies to a depot on the western border of the Orange Shore, whence those supplies are carted forward through two more depots before reaching the area of operations. Given the distances involved, we believe that this effort is only successful due to wholesale pillaging operations by the Volantene army; there is simply no way that they can cart enough food all the way here to keep their whole army well-fed without feeding their army from local sources."

That caught sharpened looks of interest, especially from the Starks, Joffrey, and Edmure. When you got down to it, the truly decisive factor in planning a military operation was whether or not you could feed and water all the men and horses that the operation required. There was a reason Aegon had specifically told Kevan Lannister to spare no expense in ensuring that supplies got through to the army.

"Thank you, Colonel Barnes," Aegon said, prompting Barnes to salute and drop back to his prior position against the wall. "My lords, given the gravity of the situation, I think it meet to hear your opinions regarding our position here. In order to provide some guidance, I have drafted some questions with Lord Stannis which I request you answer. Lord Stannis?"

Stannis Baratheon bowed shortly as he rose from his chair, his harsh face almost ghoulish in the candlelight. As Hand of the King, he had taken upon himself the duty of being the army's chief administrator, a position Colonel Barnes had gnomicly described as 'chief of staff'. He had done a splendid job, of course, but Aegon saw the lines and the grey hairs that hadn't been there before the campaign; he would need to have a word with the man about delegation of authority. "Question the first;" Stannis said, holding up a small sheet of paper, "shall the army continue the battle in its current position, or withdraw to a new one nearer its base of supply?"

"Stay, of course," said Joffrey Lannister at the same time that Edmure Tully said, "Stay, obviously," and Cregan Stark said "Stand and fight." The three looked at each other in surprise before breaking out in rueful grins.

"Stay and fight it out," Robert rumbled like distant thunder.

"Stay," said Eddard Stark, his son Artos nodding. "There isn't a better position for miles."

"Stay, obviously," Garlan Tyrell concurred. "We just got here, for all love; I'm not going to tell my men that they made a twenty-mile march in as many hours only to turn right around again."

Andar Royce hesitated for a moment. "I don't think I can honestly offer an opinion, with the Army of the Vale out of action," he said finally, "but for myself, I say fight it out here if it takes all summer." Aegon nodded approvingly; the Royal Army of the Vale might have lost more than a third of its men and most of its heavy cavalry, but if Ser Andar felt thusly, then Aegon would take it as an indicator of the temper of the survivors.

Quentyn Martell raised a finger. "I would like to review our dispositions, in light of today's fighting and the state of our forces vis-à-vis the Volantenes," he hedged, "but otherwise, I believe we should stay."

"Very well then," Aegon said, "we stay here." He had meant to do so anyway, of course, but it was good to make sure that everyone had the chance to give voice to any concerns. You never knew but someone had thought of something you hadn't. "Carry on, Lord Stannis."

Stannis cleared his throat. "Question the second," he said, "it being determined to stay, will the army attack, or await attack?"

"Attack, by no later than midday," Joffrey said instantly, with Edmure and Garlan nodding support.

"I disagree," Ser Eddard said. "The position the Volantenes hold is slightly weaker than ours, yes, but it is still very strong and they yet outnumber us. I say we await and repulse the attack Colonel Barnes foresees, and then consider attacking."

"I agree with Ned," Robert declared forcefully. "The Volantenes seem inclined to beat their heads against a wall; I say we should let them."

"By all means, don't attack," said Andar Royce. "Not for another day at least; it will take me at least that long to reorganize my men."

Quentyn nodded. "We have the better position and the better supplies," he said. "Right now, all we have to do to win is not lose until the Volantenes eat the country bare. For a certainty, they won't be able to keep their elephants and their cavalry in this area much longer; they'll drink the streams dry, if nothing else. I say we await attack."

Cregan raised a hand. "I agree with Quentyn, but if the Volantenes try to outflank us and cut our supply route, we will have to attack. Our supplies are better than the Volantenes, yes, but not that much better." There was a general round of nods as Joffrey gestured acknowledgment. The men were already down to two days rations and no more, until the next supply train got through.

"Very well, then," Aegon said definitively. "We shall await attack for at least another day, unless the enemy moves to cut our supply lines. My lords, it has been a very long day and doubtless tomorrow will be even longer, so I will leave you to seek your beds. Ser Eddard, Cregan, Ser Garlan, remain a moment." As the other commanders shuffled out of the cottage, Aegon spread his hands on the table. "Cregan, if the enemy attacks tomorrow, they will probably attack in the center, in the sector held by your men."

Cregan frowned. "Has Colonel Barnes heard something, Your Grace?" he asked, flicking his eyes over to where the Winter Soldier had vanished out the back way. "From a prisoner, perhaps?"

"No, it is just a feeling," Aegon said. "They attacked us on our flanks today, and it didn't work. That being so, I foresee them dispensing with the fancy maneuvers and simply marching up our center."

Eddard frowned, considering for a moment, and then nodded. "The logic is sound," he allowed. "They must think that we stripped our center bare and depleted our reserves in order to hold our flanks today. I would, if I were them. And tomorrow I would send an assault column up our center and break it apart."

Cregan nodded. "We'll hold while we have breath and strength, Your Grace," he said as solemnly as only a young man with something to prove could. "Give us anything like decent odds and good support and we'll crush anything the Volantenes throw at us."

"Excellent," Aegon said, turning to Garlan Tyrell. "Ser Garlan, if the enemy attacks tomorrow, I will expect your men to reinforce any threatened point with the greatest speed. And if an attack becomes necessary, the bulk of the fighting will necessarily fall to your force as the largest corps still unscathed. Inform your men that only their best efforts shall suffice."

Ser Garlan bowed with gauntleted fist to breastplate. "All that men can do, we shall, Your Grace," he said stiffly.

"Then I, for one, fear nothing tomorrow, can bring," said Cregan, holding out his hand to Garlan, who accepted with a warrior's clasp of forearms. "And may all the gods have mercy on the Volantenes," he added darkly, his eyes flaring with a fey light, "for the North will not."

"So mote it be," said Aegon the Sixth, remembering his oath.

XXX

Daegar Tartheon was in many ways the very picture of a Volantene nobleman. His full beard, trimmed short in the fashion of the Old Blood, complemented his shoulder-length hair to give him a leonine appearance, reinforced by his unusually burly frame and by no means lessened by his aristocratic bearing and haughty demeanor. He had been an oddity even among the tigers for his devotion to the study of military science, to which end he had religiously spent two hours every day training at arms for all his adult life, even after he had married and passed into middle age, when a Volantene of the noble class was expected to outgrow such enthusiasms. A true nobleman, after all, did not sully his hands with anything like manual labor; if his honor or house needed defending, he had people to do that for him.

But when the need had arisen for Volantis to resurrect the office of Master of Soldiers, Tartheon had been chosen for the job within the hour. He had studied the art of war, had a better idea than most of what war entailed, and had been sufficiently indifferent to politics by the standards of the Old Blood that he had no genuine enemies.

Since coming to the office, he had labored mightily to forge an army worthy of Volantis' ancient glory, with mixed success. Oh, the raw material he had was good enough; twelve thousand Unsullied made for the most stable bedrock an army could ask for, the citizen and freedmen volunteers were enthusiastic enough, and the other slave soldiers had been suitably obedient and trainable. But the prickly, tribal, and shortsighted noblemen who made up his officer corps had driven him to shouting fits more than once even before the campaign got underway. The infantry officers had complained of the dust that the cavalry kicked up on the march, the cavalry officers had complained that the elephants were eating their horse's fodder, the elephant officers had complained that the infantry liked to make a game of harassing their elephants, and the volunteers from Slaver's Bay had complained about everything.

Now, as Tartheon looked around the room at his sulking division commanders, he felt the earth tilting beneath his feet. His army was down to one day's rations and fodder and no more, and there was no available source of either within ten miles that had not already been plundered. The next supply train was due the day after tomorrow, but that would only ameliorate the army's appetite, not sate it completely. He had to destroy the Andals and seize their supplies tomorrow, or the Grand Army of Volantis would start to die here.

 **Author note: Sorry that took so long, but the second day of the Battle of Swinford Crossroads took on a life of it's own, even working from a script. In addition to which, I have been busy with work and school, but winter term ends this week, so I should have two weeks of relatively uninterrupted writing time. Your patience, as always, is much appreciated.**

 **On to the reviews!**

 **Charles Ceasar: Thanks! Aegon, at this point, is competent enough and popular enough that he can get away with just the Small Council and his court. His successors, on the other hand . . . but I have no current plans to expand the story that far.**

 **Guest: Thank you!**

 **Guest: Thank you! Sober and competent!Robert is a favorite of mine, done well, and Oberyn is also pretty cool as a character. Unfortunately, I could not find a resource for Valyrian place names; the place names in that chapter are Westerosi translations of the original Valyrian and may or may not be entirely accurate.**

 **Guest: Thank you! Hopefully the exposition/dialogue ratio will be better in this chapter; my personal tendency is to rely on exposition rather than dialogue to tell stories, probably because I read so much history.**

 **dragonfox123: Thanks! Hope you enjoy the story!**

 **Guest: Hope you enjoy!**

 **The armed forces: Here you go! Have fun!**

 **The writing gods willing, the next chapter will be out more quickly than this one was. Thank you for your patience, thank you for reading, and thank you for the reviews. Cheers all!**


	47. Chapter 47

The Unsullied did almost everything in silence.

They marched in silence, trained in silence, tended their equipment in silence, ate in silence, and fought in silence. To hear Unsullied speak outside of what was necessary in the course of their duties was a very rare thing. When one's whole life is war, there is very little fodder for small talk, especially when you and the people you train and fight with are so attuned to each other that speech is superfluous.

So when the orders came for the Unsullied division to form line of battle, the Unsullied did so without a word, falling into seamless blocks of men a hundred strong, which melded into three larger blocks four thousand strong, two forward and one back. Once in formation, the butts of their spears thudded to the ground and each man stood perfectly still. A fly, crawling down an eyelid and onto an eyeball, was displaced by a single, slow blink of a controlled eyelid.

Grey Worm, from his post near the Master of Soldiers with the rest of the Untouchables, was too well-trained to feel anything recognizable as pride or fear; the training of the Good Masters burned out emotion as thoroughly as individuality. Nonetheless, as he watched the Unsullied phalanx waiting in ranks, he felt his heart swell as he considered just how _many_ of his spear-brothers were here, and considered what he knew of the enemy. _O Lady of the Spears,_ he prayed in his deepest heart, _be with us in the shieldwall, now and in the hour of combat. Be in truth our Bride of Battle, amid the shattering of the spears and the shedding of blood. Grant us victory, O Mother of Hosts, and take the fallen home to you to be reborn into your companies._

The elephants trundled up from their portion of the camp with squealing rumbles and took up position in front of the infantry. Each massive beast carried its mahout and also a howdah containing two crossbowmen and all the quarrels that could fit. These, Grey Worm understood, were to be the means by which the Westerosi lines were broken and shattered so that the Unsullied could sweep them from the field. He scoffed internally; Unsullied did not need beasts to do their work for them. Although if they performed as hoped, he would give thanks to the Mother of Hosts for them nonetheless.

The horns blew and the Unsullied stepped off, twelve thousand silent men who marched as one so that the earth seemed to shake under their tread. The elephants, goaded by their mahouts, began to plod forward, squealing and trumpeting. From the rest of the army came a chorus of cheers and a thunder of drums. Volantis, queen of cities, First Daughter of Valyria, was on the attack.

XXX

Black Tam, a pikeman in the Karhold Foot, sighed gustily as he sipped his morning smallbeer. It was shaping up to be another hot day, and camp rumor had it that the enemy would attack in the center today. Tam shrugged to himself; if the Volantenes were fool enough to come, the Army of the North would teach them how it felt to fight free men, and professionals at that. The Army had been largely kept out of the action yesterday, except for the two brigades brought down to flank the Volantenes, and the men were itching to do something besides stand in ranks all day.

At that moment, the horns blew _assembly_ and Sergeant Domnal stamped down the lines roaring "Stand to, stand to! Pikes and helmets and into ranks, boys!" Tam gulped the rest of his smallbeer, flipped his morion onto his head, and grabbed his pike from where it rested against a rack; he was already wearing his brigandine, gauntlets, and shortsword. From there he hustled into his place, third-rank-second-file, next to his cousin Rickon and behind his goodbrother Willam. Barely two minutes after the horns had sounded the regiment was marching up onto the ridgeline, and the Northmen saw what was coming their way.

"Huh," grunted Willam, a man as taciturn as he was broad. "Big."

"Gods above and below," muttered Alyn in the next rank back and next file over. "That's a lot of the buggers."

"Mother, and you'll not see the like o' _that_ come down the road from the Horse Fair," said Cayn, a burly front-rank man, in tones of awe.

XXX

Cregan Stark looked across the field at the Volantene assault force tramping across the field and had to make a conscious effort to keep from showing fear. He was a Stark of Winterfell, a scion of one of the most martial dynasties on the continent of Westeros, and yet the perfect discipline and total silence of the Unsullied and the looming bulks and occasional trumpeting of the elephants tested his nerves.

 _Now, if I were in the regiments with the infantry, it would be easier,_ he mused, turning his gaze to the serried ranks of pikemen and archers that crested the ridgeline like living battlements. _At least then my problems would be simpler and I wouldn't have to_ think _so much about all the things that could go wrong._ At least the Volantenes had no artillery; for that matter, neither did the Westerosi. The scorpions that the Office of Military Research had been developing at Colonel Barnes' suggestion were still too experimental to field with the army and the springalds that crowned the battlements of King's Landing and White Harbor were too heavy for open-field use.

Of course, that also meant that the infantry had to watch the coming tide march toward them unmolested. The Volantene light horse had been mostly destroyed or neutered by the Company of the Storm and the Dornish on the first day of the battle, but the division of heavy cavalry flanking the Unsullied sufficed to ward off any sallies by the remaining Dornish horse archers, even if their mounts could be made to go near the elephants. The stink of fear would be heavy now in the ranks of the infantry, but Cregan was confident that his men would stand nonetheless. The density of the formations precluded anyone breaking ranks, even if their brothers and cousins and neighbors weren't there with them to tell others what they had done and the iron pride of discipline hadn't been deeply printed on their souls.

 _So spit on your hands and brace the pike, finger your bowstring and count your arrows, listen to the sergeants, let the skinpipes and drums drown out the panic, swallow the fear and the anger that all these damned foreign strangers are trying to kill you, and think of whatever helps. Your friends in the ranks with you, what you'll do when you come home from the wars, a beloved face on the pillow next to you, a child held up under a tree, or songs in a tavern as the wind blows and the rain falls. Or just think of it as a dirty, dangerous job that must be done and none but you and yours to do it._

Cregan considered numbers, terrain, and angles as his father, his uncle, and the deadliest man on the planet had taught him, and beckoned to a galloper. "Message to Ser Garlan Tyrell," he said. "'I have observed at least ten thousand infantry, as many cavalry, and two hundred elephants massing in my front. I believe this to be the enemy main effort. Bring up your men at the double.' Go." As the galloper spurred away, his horse kicking up a rooster-tail of dust and loose soil, Cregan beckoned to another. "Message to the King; 'I believe the enemy attack to be descending directly on my front. Recommend that the Guards Brigade contemplate a flanking attack after contact'."

XXX

Colonel James Barnes (the title of Ser still sits strangely with him and he prefers the military title) watched the Volantenes from the forested swale. It had taken some time to convince the King and Ser Eddard of the worth of his plan, some more time to work out the details, and almost all of the night and most of the morning to get into position here along the banks of the small stream that eventually fed into the Willowflood, in the rear of the Grand Army of Volantis. Against any other foe and with any other soldiers the attempt would have failed, but seven or eight in ten of the Volantene soldiers were slaves and poor ones at that, not naturally inclined to give their best efforts when not under the eyes of their officers, and the freemen and citizens who had enlisted in the Grand Army were stationed elsewhere in the line from where Barnes had led the infiltration. What was more, the men (and some women) that he had led on this mission were soldiers of the Special Service Regiment, the Reconnaissance Regiment, the Guides, Lord Lannister's Own Foresters, and outriders from the Royal Armies of Dorne and the Reach; by any measure the finest light troops in the world, and ones who knew how to sneak their way through enemy lines.

Now they lay motionless in the undergrowth, concealed under ghillie cloaks, one of Barnes' innovations. They were nervous, of course; anyone who wouldn't have been nervous about being caught flat-footed and cut off from the rest of their army would have been certifiably insane. But they were nonetheless confident. Each man and woman there had been hand-selected by the Winter Soldier himself for a special mission, and as they surveyed the cluster of Volantene officers under the banner of the Master of Soldiers, they began to guess what that mission was. Upon the signal, they would decapitate the Grand Army of Volantis, and then do their level best to tear out its nervous system. The fact that the Master of Soldiers was surrounded by a company of Unsullied counted only as minutiae; even Unsullied would be disconcerted by an ambush in the middle of their own encampment, and they had the Winter Soldier with them. What were mere Unsullied to the Iron Fist of the North, the Warrior Incarnate?

Barnes felt the pride and confidence of the men and women under his command like fire-heat, burning away what few shadows remained in his mind after more than twenty years in this world. On Earth he had been a figure of terror, a boogeyman that made even the most powerful and most well-guarded of men tremble. Here, he was that again, but this time, it was because he had chosen it. Here he was no brainwashed slave, little better than a dog, but a _man_ , who had chosen his path and done his best to make the world better than he had found it.

He put those thoughts out of his head (even during a wait such as this, it didn't pay to get distracted), shifted a rock out from under his ribs with glacial slowness and exquisite care, and began counting heartbeats. The time to strike would come; until then, he and his soldiers would wait.

XXX

Ser Garlan Tyrell trotted his horse up to Cregan and exchanged salutes. "Ye gods and little fishes," he said softly as he surveyed the oncoming Unsullied. "That's quite a lot of the buggers, isn't it?" He hadn't phrased it as a question, but Cregan nodded nonetheless. This was, quite possibly, more Unsullied than had ever been gathered in one place at one time outside of Astapor itself. "I brought my men up with me," Garlan continued, gesturing behind him at the columns of knights, men-at-arms, and infantry toiling up the rear slope of Graveyard Ridge. "I assume you'll want my men to reinforce yours in the line?"

Cregan waggled his hand in a gesture he had picked up from Barnes. "Your infantry at least," he replied, "but not your cavalry." He gestured at the ground. "Look you, that fence along the lane there will divide the Unsullied from their cavalry support on their right, like as not. Once they're split up, your knights should be able to beat those horsemen out of the way, and then our combined cavalry can sweep around and encircle them." He drew a broad semicircle in the air with his hand and Garlan smiled carnivorously.

"We can do that," he said confidently. "What about their other flank?"

Cregan's smile was just as toothy as Garlan's. "His Grace said the Guards Brigade would see to that," he said, feeling his chest warm with pride as he spoke. He owed the King loyalty, of course, but it soothed Cregan's soul, as fiercely absolute and obsessed with fairness as only a young man's can be, that his loyalty was deserved. It would have been very difficult if King Aegon had been like his father in more than looks.

"Gods go with His Grace and strengthen his arm, then," Garlan said, gauging the ground and the approaching Volantenes with a practiced eye. Loras was the true warrior-born in the Tyrell family, but Garlan was no less competent in the science of war; he just didn't have Loras's single-minded zeal. "Once they're abreast of that cottage, there, I'll hit them. Will you send your cavalry with me, or hold them back until we've chased their horse off?"

Cregan turned in the saddle. "Domeric!" he shouted, summoning a pale young man with shoulder-length black hair under his helmet who rode his horse like a centaur. "Ser Garlan Tyrell, allow me to introduce Domeric Bolton, commander of the North's cavalry. Domeric, we will be countercharging the Volantene horse on their right here; cooperate with Ser Garlan to that end." As Ser Garlan and Domeric exchanged salutes and fell to earnest conversation, Cregan turned away. Domeric was of an age with him, but he already had a reputation as a competent officer and a good leader of men. He was confident that his left flank was well looked after, which with the King's promise of support on his right solved two of his three most pressing problems. The third, of course, was halfway across the valley between Temple Ridge and Graveyard Ridge already and coming on fast.

XXX

The Unsullied marched on in silence, keeping step with an ease born of harsh training. To miss step in the training companies had meant ten strokes with the scourge for the first failure and the sword for the second. It was an approach conducive to quick learning.

Ahead of them the elephants reached the road running south between the two ridges towards the remnants of the town of Swinford. This road was lined on either side with post-and-rail fences, testament to the fact that the land the Volantene assault force was marching across had been privately owned agricultural land before the war came. To livestock or men, the fences would have been a significant obstacle, but the elephants, goaded on by shouting mahouts with prodding goads, simply curled their trunks around post and rail and pulled the fences down by main strength.

The Unsullied marched on, inexorable, barely changing pace as they stepped over the fallen rails and crossed the road. They seemed the living embodiment of the unstoppable force.

And then they started running into problems.

The first problem, as they closed to within three hundred yards of the ridgeline, was that the enemy archers began to loose arrows by the thousand. To the Unsullied themselves, this was no problem. Their only armor was the quilted tunics and spiked caps they had left Astapor in, but their shields, sturdy rectangular affairs of oak planks rimmed in soft iron and faced with waxed steerhide, did a lovely job of stopping arrows. The elephants, however, had neither shields nor armor. And while their wrinkly skin was thick enough to protect them from thorns, it could not stop arrows, either broadheads or bodkins, fired from Westerosi war-bows. What was more; their mahouts were only lightly armored and had no shields, having both their hands full in controlling their great mounts.

The line of elephants staggered, giving voice to bellows of pain and trumpeting squeals of shocked outrage. They had been going on an acceptably good walk on a reasonably fine day, when suddenly and quite without warning pain had started falling from the sky. It was really quite intolerable.

Enough mahouts survived and retained control of their elephants, however, that the line began to roll forward again. Elephants were herd animals by nature, and if enough of the herd decided to go a certain direction, the others would fall in line. So the elephants continued to lead the march up the slope of Graveyard Ridge in the teeth of the arrows, voicing complaints all the while.

The second problem occurred when the Volantene cavalry brigade on the right of the Unsullied found itself with a fence between it and the Unsullied. The cavalry commanders initially shrugged. What of it? They didn't need the support of _infantry_ to take care of themselves, even such infantry as the Unsullied. But when the knights of the Reach, led by Ser Garlan Tyrell, came thundering down the slope and met them lance to lance, they hastily revised their opinions. Those that survived.

There was no purer heavy cavalry in the world than the chivalry of the Reach. The lords, knights, and men-at-arms who called the Reach home were steeped in a chivalric tradition dating back millennia that valued nothing more than valor and knightly prowess. And the foundation of that prowess was the charge; a wall of armored men on barded horses riding knee to plate-encased knee with couched lances that struck at the canter. The knights of the Reach were not invincible; during the Rebellion the rebels had strewn their bones over half the Kingswood, from the Crossroads to Twinoak. But those had been men who had known how to defeat knights, had employed weapons and tactics that allowed them to do so, and had deployed knights of their own. The Volantene aristocrats who rode in that attack had never met Andal-style armored lancers in combat, much less ones as skilled as the Reachmen. As for the Ghiscari noblemen from the cities of Slaver's Bay who rode with them, Westeros was as much a land of fable and myth as Asshai-by-the-Shadow, or far Yi Ti. To be sure, the nobles of the slaver cities fought as armored cavalrymen, when they fought. But it was rare for them to take the field. Fighting wars was work for slaves and mercenaries.

Compared to the Reachmen, each of whom had trained religiously from the age of seven to become the finest knight their bodies and their resources would allow, the Volantenes and the Ghiscari volunteers were amateurs facing professionals. Dilettantes, facing masters.

The Reachmen struck them like a mace wielded by a god and smashed them to a halt. Literally to a dead stop. The long lances and heavy armor and mighty chargers of the Reachmen overthrew the Volantenes and the Ghiscari and drove them under in a cacophony of shattering lances and screaming men and horses. Nor did the easterners' education in the Way of the Heavy Cavalryman end there, as the Reachmen discarded the stubs of broken lances and began to lay about them with hand weapons. This was the melee, the swirling, random, kaleidoscopic maelstrom of mutual slaughter that was as much the natural habitat of the Andal knight as the charge. The Volantenes and the Ghiscari fought back of course; for all their faults and sins, and they were many, they were not cowards. But courage is not enough when you don't have the weight of metal or the training (physical, mental, and spiritual) to take the punishment as well as give it out, and the Volantene cavalry brigade broke. The two proudest breeds of men on earth, scions of imperial Valyria and purple-towered Old Ghis, broke and fled and ever after, rightly or wrongly, the knights of the Reach despised them for committing the ultimate sin of heavy cavalrymen. _They did not stand and fight like men_.

On the Unsullied's left flank, their supporting cavalry was meeting a similar fate at the hands of the Guards Brigade. The Guards were a new formation, largely Crownlanders and men of the Narrow Sea with a leavening of specially picked men from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, built around the garrison of the Red Keep, those former Windblown who had taken the King's silver after the siege of King's Landing, and a cadre from the Guides and the Royal Marines. Formed as two battalions of heavy infantry, one battalion of heavy cavalry, one mixed battalion of light infantry and light cavalry, and a separate company of heavy infantry, it was essentially the royal version of the standing army created by Tywin Lannister. They were the least numerous of any of the individual commands in the Royal Army of Westeros, but a combination of veteran personnel, motivated recruits, and intensive training resulted in their developing a self-image as the elite of Westeros' armies. In this, their first major field combat, that self-image was transformed into a reputation.

The Guards Cuirassiers struck the Volantene and Ghiscari cavalrymen with only slightly less force than the Reachman on the other side of the battlefield, but their effect was no less dramatic and when the Guards Light Horse outflanked the Volantene horsemen they shattered completely. King Aegon, riding at the head of the Cuirassiers and flanked by four of his Kingsguard, halted his cavalry and reformed them, the Light Horse taking up screening positions facing Temple Ridge while the Cuirassiers dressed ranks facing the Unsullied left flank. The Unsullied's officers were not blind to this, of course, and the leftmost regiment of Unsullied halted, wheeled left, and prepared to receive cavalry, all with only three commands given at normal conversational volume to the regimental trumpeters. This placed a thousand Unsullied in formation between the Cuirassiers and their comrades in the rest of the assault force, which continued to march up the ridge. Aegon, however, didn't mind being cheated of the opportunity to launch a charge into the Unsullied flank. The Guards Infantry were coming on at the double.

The two heavy battalions, comprised of armored spearmen and crossbowmen, formed into a single battle line with the crossbowmen on the flanks of the spears. The light companies, composed of longbowmen, took up station behind the heavies and began to loft their arrows into the Unsullied formation as the spearmen advanced and the crossbows added their bolts to the storm of missiles which abated only moments before the spearmen charged home.

The Unsullied fought with their traditional valor, but their quilted tunics and spiked caps were not sufficient to allow them to fight hand-to-hand with men wearing back-and-breast, kettle helmet, full mail sleeves, tassets, and greaves. They died hard, however, delaying the Guards long enough to allow their comrades to come to grips with the Northmen on the ridgeline.

This gave rise to the third problem.

Humans will willingly undergo shattering trauma in pursuit of a goal. They will march through storms of missiles, assail towering battlements, and cross burning deserts and frozen tundra in pursuit of a goal they deem worthy or necessary. This willingness to self-sacrifice in order to further a collective venture, however, is unique to humans. Elephants, being sane and sensible creatures who want nothing more than to go on living, have a much more conservative definition of what constitutes an acceptable level of trauma. So when the Volantene war elephants reached the Northern regiments along the top of Graveyard Ridge, they balked. They had traveled thousands of miles from their home ranges, on commons much shorter than what they were accustomed to, only to find pain falling from the sky and now a hedge of metal thorns on long sticks directly in front of them, with pain flying straight into their faces. And all the time their sensitive ears were being subjected to hammering drums and a droning high-pitched wailing tone that skirled and blared chaotically. It was all entirely too much to be borne.

The elephants wavered for a long moment before the Northern pikes, and then, when Cregan Stark gave to order for the regiments to charge, they broke. A few lost their heads entirely and rampaged in place until close-range archery and thrusting pikes brought them down, but the majority of the elephants turned right around and lumbered back down the ridge at best speed, ignoring all attempts by their mahouts to regain control.

No group of humans, not even a company of Unsullied formed in ranks, can stand their ground in the face of around nine feet and more than eight thousand pounds of fed-up pachyderm running downhill at more than ten miles an hour, not with bare seconds to react. Most of the Unsullied companies did not even try to stop the fleeing elephants, opting instead to split ranks and let them pass through the lines towards the rear. A few companies, whose officers failed to react quickly enough, did not break ranks, which said more for the discipline of the Unsullied than it did for their intelligence. In those companies, those Unsullied who found themselves in the path of the elephant were either bowled aside or outright trampled.

The most immediate result of the war elephants breaking and stampeding back through the Unsullied division was that the perfect ranks and alignment of the Unsullied was disrupted. They were only disrupted for a moment before the ranks were closed and reformed, but with the Northmen already charging down the ridge, this minor miracle of discipline sufficed only to keep the line from collapsing at the first onset.

Only the Unsullied could have withstood that charge, taking the pike-points on their shields and angling them up and over their heads. Here and there along the line Unsullied went down, bowled over when three or four pikes met a single shield, or killed when pikes held overarm crashed into faces or shoulders or torsos in two-handed stabs with a pikeman's full weight behind them. But where the Unsullied stood firm they pressed forward, either thrusting with their spears or drawing shortswords for the butcher's work of cutting through the Northern regiments. They were met by more pikes coming over the shoulders of the front-rank men, and men who discarded their pikes for buckler and shortsword. All along the front, the Unsullied and the Northmen came to grips with each other and locked together like bull elk in rut, two huge forces straining against each other in balanced tension threatening to burst their bonds and explode at any moment.

Equal forces of good infantry hammering away at each other like this, toe-to-toe and unwilling to give ground, was the most expensive kind of fighting there was; one later historian would calculate that between fifty and one hundred men were killed every minute that the Unsullied division and the Army of the North were in contact, not counting men who were merely wounded. Barring outside interference, the outcome would have been too close to call, between the superior armor of the Northmen and the unshakable discipline of the Unsullied. But at this point, the second problem the Unsullied had encountered gave rise to a fourth problem.

The Westerosi counterattacks that had stripped away the cavalry protection from the Unsullied's flanks allowed for the Westerosi's local reserves to swing around those flanks and attack the Unsullied from the sides. On their right, they received a thundering charge from the knights of the Reach that was followed by their infantry, spear-and-axemen from the watershed of the mighty River Mander, archers and billmen from the Dornish Marches, and pike and crossbowmen from Oldtown and Highgarden. Onto their left came the Guards Infantry, spearheaded by a dismounted squadron of Guards Cuirassiers led by King Aegon and his Kingsguards. And finally, from their rear came squadrons of dismounted Northern cavalrymen, medium cavalry in plate over ring-mail hauberks and wielding spear, sword, axe, and shield. The knights of the Reach might consider fighting on foot to be slightly demeaning, but the Northmen harbored no such delusions and the Guards Cuirassiers were former mercenaries and not terribly picky about how they fought, so long as they won.

Even the legendary cohesion of the Unsullied, the most formidable fighting insect the world had yet encountered, could not withstand being attacked from all sides at once. The regiments and companies began to disintegrate as the Westerosi pushed into them. The Unsullied fought back, their discipline reinforced with desperation, but in this sort of disorganized brawl, the gods were on the side with the heavier armor and the better individual fighters, and while the Unsullied were excellent soldiers, they were not warriors. Again and again the same scene played out; two or three Northern cavalrymen or newly dismounted Reacher knights or Guards Cuirassiers would commandeer a squad or two of infantry and lead them against the nearest pocket of Unsullied, relying on their armor to keep them alive long enough for them to break open the shield walls and make a hole for the infantry to exploit. If the Unsullied could have reformed into coherent companies even once after they had been broken open, they might have held their ground. But surrounded on every side, their formations in fragments, and active and enterprising enemies taking every opportunity to break them up even further, they could only die like cattle in a slaughterhouse.

XXX

Daegar Tartheon could only watch as the Unsullied division and his heavy cavalry division, the two strongest and finest units in his army, were torn to pieces. The rest of his army was either too badly battered to attack or could not otherwise be committed. It was a long way back to the main supply base on the Orange Shore and the country between Swinford and there was already simmering with discontent. If the army did not retain at least enough strength to cow the inhabitants on the way back, it would be dragged down and worried apart by bandit gangs and other scavengers. As it was, the army would have to retreat at first light tomorrow, if they were not to die here.

He concealed a grimace; at least he would not have to deal with those damned elephants. Those that hadn't been killed by the Andals had been put down by their mahouts when the beasts had stampeded. A chisel hammered through the spinal cord would kill anything.

Daegar had just turned to his aide to give the order to prepare for a retreat, slightly puzzled by the launching of a fire arrow from the Andal lines, when an arrowhead sprouted from the man's mouth. As the man dropped from the saddle before Daegar's shocked gaze, the trees at the bottom of the ridge suddenly spewed forth armed men howling war cries.

Time seemed to crystallize. Daegar turned his horse, shouting the alarum as he dragged his sword from the scabbard. The Untouchables pivoted in place and rushed to put themselves between the threat and the cluster of officers. The ambushers boiled up the slope, loosing arrows as they came and punching officers out of the saddle. But Daegar was heedless of the arrows, his eyes fixed on the tall man with shoulder-length dark hair leading the rush, the afternoon sun gleaming off his metal left arm. The Winter Soldier was here, and the sight of him made Daegar's bowels freeze.

Then the assault hit and time seemed to speed back up again. The Winter Soldier brushed the spearpoints up over his head with his sword and lashed out with his metal arm, knocking an Untouchable out of the shield wall and opening a gap that he dashed through before it could be closed. The shields snapped together behind him and the reserve dozen of Untouchables moved to engage him, but the Winter Soldier was not a legend without reason. The spears of the Untouchables lashed out in a dizzying flurry of thrusts, like a dozen vipers striking in coordination. The Winter Soldier thwarted them all, his sword and metal arm blurring as they beat the blows aside. The Untouchables redoubled their efforts, revolving around their prey as smoothly as dancers as they probed for an opening in the web of steel the Winter Soldier had woven around himself. The Winter Soldier, never once changing expression from the intent scowl he had worn through the charge, twisted and spun like a rope in a gale, evading death by inches as the spears flashed around him. For a long minute the deadly dance continued as the rest of the enemy infiltrators raged against the Untouchable shield wall, until, as the Untouchables began to flag, the Winter Soldier struck like chain lightning. Throwing his sword through an Untouchable's skull, he shot through the gap in the ring of spearpoints like a weasel, closing to fist and dagger range in an eye blink and proceeding to cut through the Untouchables like a tiger through wolves. The Untouchables downed spears and drew their shortswords, but they could not match the Winter Soldier in close combat, and one by one they fell.

As the last Untouchable fell, the Winter Soldier grabbed him by the throat and threw him at the line of Untouchables holding off the rest of the infiltrators, knocking two Untouchables to the ground and opening a gap that was ruthlessly exploited. The infiltrators poured through, some wrapping around the Untouchables while others, the Winter Soldier among them, rushed for the officers. Daegar blocked a cut aimed at his leg, and then a spear punched through his chin and into his brain and the world went black.

 _The destruction of the Unsullied division and the ambush on Daegar Tartheon's command group coincided with a general advance by the Royal Armies of the West and the Trident, spearheaded by Ser Edmure Tully's Trident Guard and Ser Joffrey Lannister's personal entourage of knights. This advance resulted in very few casualties; the previous two days of fighting had left the Grand Army badly battered and the twin blows of the assassination of the Grand Army's high command and the destruction of the Unsullied led to a collapse of morale that proved infectious. The resulting rout lasted for the rest of the day and into the night; it was not until mid-morning the next day that the Grand Army was rallied._

 _Its rout from Swinford, however, was only the start of the Grand Army's tribulations. Stranded hundreds of miles from home with only two days of supplies (and that largely due to the number of casualties sustained at Swinford), several thousand wounded in various states from mortal to minimal, an enemy army in close proximity, and a hostile country between them and the nearest base of supply and reinforcement, the Grand Army faced a terrible ordeal. Of the almost one hundred thousand men who marched out from Volantis with the Grand Army, barely ten thousand, mostly Volantene citizens and freemen, along with a few surviving nobles and Ghiscari volunteers, made it back to Volantis._

 _Their return, however was not as they had wished. Not all of Westeros' armies had fought at Swinford, nor had the Braavosi been idle . . ._

 **Lys**

Rodrik Harlaw frowned like a disapproving god as he watched the city of Lys fall. Tregar Ormollen had been foolish to order the Lysene fleet to attack the Stepstones, and doubly foolish to order that Lys be defended instead of declared an open city. The few, indifferent sellswords that had remained to Lys following Viserys's attempt on the Throne had made a poor showing against the glaives of the Royal Marines and the axes of the Ironborn, and the Lysene themselves were traders and brothel-keepers, not fighters.

By ancient custom, when a besieged city fell, everything in it belonged to the besiegers. Everything, and everyone. Judging by the screams, salt wives were being claimed already, although the flames rising from the merchant's quarter might account for some of the lamentations. Rodrik shrugged; if the Lysene had been willing to pay the iron price, and the blood price, they might have staved off the fleet. As it was, they had neglected sword and sail in favor of poison and pillow house and so their city had fallen like overripe fruit. Rodrik spat over the side of his ship to get the incipient taste of smoke out of his mouth. If you couldn't defend yourself and you didn't have powerful friends to do it for you, then you were the lawful prey of whoever wanted you. That was the root and stem of the iron price.

Rodrik turned back to his cabin. Millenia of tradition and heritage didn't mean that he had to enjoy the sight and sound of a city being sacked. Unlike some he could name.

 **Volantis**

The Braavosi hated slavers.

This was not a cultural quirk as much as it was a fundamental underpinning of Braavosi society. The bastard daughter of Valyria had been founded by ex-slaves and between the ex-slave and the slave owner there could be no peace. Slavers who had the misfortune to come across Braavosi warships (and even more belligerent merchantmen) usually wound up finding out how well they could swim with their chains wrapped around their ankles, and when Braavosi and Volantene ships passed each other at sea, the only thing that restrained both sides from having at each other was a general feeling of 'not yet, but someday, someday soon . . .'.

Under these circumstances, the Braavosi siege of Volantis was remarkably restrained. Of a certainty the harbor mouth was clogged with purple-sailed warships and ten thousand Braavosi pike and crossbowmen were put ashore to invest the city by land, but they had been uncommonly slothful in their advance through the suburbs. Admittedly, this could have been because the streets had been filled with fleeing civilians and there had been strict orders that there was to be no unnecessary bloodshed, but even after the gates of the Black Wall had closed, the Braavosi had only erected a few engines and entrenchments and seemed largely content to sit before the walls and dine on the food that had been left in the wards outside the Wall.

The private soldiers puzzled over this seeming lack of direction or energy, but like soldiers the world over they assumed that their officers knew what they were doing in the absence of evidence to the contrary. They had to, or else they wouldn't be officers. So they shrugged and went back to the myriad of minor chores that living in an army camp entailed, along with the usual rigmarole of army life with its inspections and parades, and filling their spare time with cards or dice or music.

Syrio Forel, however, former First Sword of Braavos and now a regimental sergeant-major, saw what the Second Sword of Braavos was doing and approved whole-heartedly.

Old Volantis, that portion enclosed by the Black Wall, had a great many temples, palaces, courtyards, towers, and the like. What it didn't have very many of were storehouses. The city's granaries were all in the western part of the city, behind Braavosi lines, as were the city's main livestock market, vegetable market, and fish market. What was more, the regular population of Old Volantis had been very precipitately joined behind the walls by thousands, if not tens of thousands, of freedmen and slaves. Whether or not the Old Blood wanted to continue the war might not strictly matter by the end of the month; it's somewhat difficult to decide to continue a war when doing so means slow death by starvation for tens of thousands of people who don't like you very much _and who are also locked in the same neighborhood as you_.

Besides which, Syrio reflected as a nearby engine cast its load into the city for the fourth time that day, there was another ingredient to the mixture behind the walls. The slaves of Volantis had not rebelled in generations, but let enough broken collars be catapulted over the Wall and sooner or later enough slaves would get the hint.

Syrio sprinkled some salt into the porridge he was making for the rest of the underofficers in his battalion. Another sennight, he judged, maybe two, would see things come to a boil behind the Black Wall.

 **Author's Note: So that wraps up the Battle of Swinford, the rest of the Second War of the Three Daughters, and about ninety percent of this story. There will be one more chapter after this to cover the end of the war, the subsequent peace settlement, and disclose various people's fates.**

 **Now for the reviews!**

 **Perseus12: Thank you!**

 **Charles Ceasar: Thank you!**

 **reluctantuser: Thanks! My main strength as a writer is exposition rather than dialogue, so it's good to know that it works. And yeah, having new places and peoples to describe does help in that regard.**

 **I agree with some qualifiers. Depending on what the Avengers bring to Planetos with them, it might be interesting. I'd like to see a well-written story about Natasha Romanov building the greatest shadow empire in Planetosi history with only her organic skillset (no technology) and making Varys, the Faceless Men, and everyone in the intelligence business in the Narrow Sea tread very carefully. Hawkeye likewise, with maybe a bit more emphasis on direct action rather than subterfuge. Tony Stark . . . there are a few TonyinWesteros!fics out there already but I don't like Tony that much (he's kind of a heedless asshole) so I'm ambivalent about them. Vision might be interesting to read, if written by someone who's very good at writing introspection and dialogue instead of "Vision crush the puny mortals!" Banner would be spending too much time as the Hulk to be terribly interesting as a character, I think, out of self-defense if nothing else. Steve might be interesting if he ran into a decent challenge; most of the fics involving him seem to end up with him either persuading people to his side with the power of charisma (which, admittedly, he has gobs of) or simply going One-Man Army on them (which starts to get boring after the fourth or fifth time). Wanda would be spending too much time running from torches and pitchforks to do much more than make ends meet. Thor suffers from the World of Cardboard problem; he's just too powerful for anyone to put up a fight except for the White Walkers, maybe Melisandre (if her skillset expands to throwing fireballs around) or a suddenly incarnated god of Planetos (come to think of it, I'd pay money to see Thor take on the Seven in a straight fight). But thanks for the positive feedback!**

 **Thanks! Soberandcompetent!Robert is always fun, and a Joffrey who isn't a little shit and makes himself useful is refreshing once in a while.**

 **My pleasure!**

 **RosoMC: Thanks! And this is what the Braavosi were up to; kept the supply situation simpler and gave them something to do. Also sets up opportunity for friction in later historiography of the war ("lazy tea-drinking Braavosi let us do all the fighting", etc.).**

 **Guest: That's probably the biggest compliment anyone's ever given me on my writing. Thank you.**

 **Akashic Records: Thanks! I also felt that keeping to the sidelines would suit post-HYDRA Bucky's personality more, especially in a world not his own and while still recovering from the brainwashing.**

 **There's not really a need for Westeros to pull a Tyre or a Masada in this situation. Between Swinford and the siege, Volantis has essentially lost.**

 **Guest: Thanks! I think it's the longest chapter in the story by about four and a half thousand words. Harrold Arryn isn't actually dead, he just wishes he was. Boy, does he wish.**

 **Guest: Thanks! And here you go!**

 **Guest: Thanks! I don't know what I'll write next. We'll have to see what sets the creative wheels turning.**

 **Spring term actually starts tomorrow, so it may be some time until the next and final chapter comes out. Your patience, as ever, is greatly appreciated.**

 **Cheers, all!**


	48. Chapter 48

**Casterly Rock**

Tywin Lannister exchanged bows with Ser Eddard Stark as he evaluated the man across from him. In his time as Lord Marshal, Ser Eddard had developed a reputation as a straight-forward, coolly professional man with no tolerance for evasiveness or half-truths. _Best to be blunt, then,_ Tywin decided as he and Ser Eddard took their seats in his solar. "I will be frank and to the point," he said, steepling his fingertips. "I have spent the past twenty years training both Joffrey and his younger brother Tommen to succeed me as Lord of Casterly Rock. Of the two, I would prefer it to be Joffrey; he has the better claim, if only barely, and he has been the one of my grandsons more aware of the necessity of strength in a lord. Thus far, I have been satisfied with his progress, so I gave him command of the Royal Army of the West as a test, to prove or disprove his fitness to rule. So I ask you, my Lord Marshal; did Joffrey lead his army well?"

Eddard nodded. "He kept his army well-supplied and in good order. Its conduct both in camp and on the march was exemplary. Any difficulties that arose were handled at Joffrey's headquarters or lower; all I or Stannis or the King had to do was affirm his decisions."

"And in battle?" Tywin asked, concealing a surge of triumph.

"Joffrey was knighted on the field of Elborak for the part his army played in repelling the Dothraki charge," Eddard replied. "At Swinford he played an integral role in salvaging our left flank on the second day, and then played a large part in our counter-attack on the third day in concert with Lord Edmure. I have no complaints at all about Joffrey's management in camp and on the march, or his leadership on the field."

Tywin nodded to himself and flicked a glance at his long-time body man. "Bring in Joffrey," he said, prompting the man to bow silently and almost glide out of the room. "Thank you, Ser Eddard," he said standing and shaking the Lord Marshal's hand as his body man returned with Joffrey in tow. "Ser Eddard Stark," Tywin Lannister said formally, "allow me to introduce my heir, Ser Joffrey Lannister, in whom I am well pleased."

Tywin Lannister had had very little of pure joy in his life since his wife died. But the look on his grandson's face in that moment made his heart swell almost to bursting.

 **The Gulf of Grief**

Euron Greyjoy smirked like a satisfied cat as the _Silence_ slid through the waves. The war with the Volantenes had ended, true, but all things had to come to an end sooner or later, and he had gotten no small amount of good sport out of it; his smirk broadened as he remembered the scent of a burning city and the joy of slaughter and the screaming of Lyseni maidens under his fingers. Furthermore, the wars had given him an insight into the mind of the boy who called himself a dragon. To Aegon, anyone who was either not of Westeros or not a friend of Westeros was either a current or a future enemy, to be fought and finished now or weakened for later. So long as Euron stayed his hand from Westerosi and Braavosi ships, he would be allowed to run loose with a king's prayers behind him.

Euron shrugged to himself. It was not in his nature to be picky about his food, but he freely admitted that fighting the Royal Fleet and the Braavosi armada would be more bother than it was worth. Besides, to a proper seafarer, no horizon was too far. He had, for example, heard many wondrous things about Asshai and Yi Ti. His iron hands caressed the rail of his ship. Let his book-blinded uncle while away the years in King's Landing, let his blinkered brothers stew on their rocks and squabble over the scraps of Slaver's Bay. He would live life to the fullest, take his fill of bloody slaughter and stinging wine and mewling women as he pleased, and the Storm God could take the rest.

Euron Greyjoy threw back his head and gave voice to a howl of predatory expectation. "Grab your ankles and prepare your anuses, you sorry bastards!" he crowed, his voice shocking across the _Silence_ 's habitual quietude. "Here I come, ready or not!"

 **King's Landing, Maegor's Holdfast**

"The Volantenes will sign, then?" Margaery asked as she drew a brush through her hair.

"By day after tomorrow, at latest," Aegon replied, setting down his quill and stretching a cramp out of his hand. "They should really be more wary of their surroundings." It was hardly chivalrous to eavesdrop on people's private conversations, but chivalry was reserved for people who deserved it, in Aegon's opinion. The Volantenes did not.

"I will see to arrangements for the festivities then," said Margaery as she put down her brush. "For the signing of the treaty and for the other matter as well."

Aegon cocked an eyebrow at his wife of eight months. "Other matter?" he asked, concealing hope with casualness.

Margaery smiled at him in her mirror. "It will be some time before it becomes obvious, so we may want to wait until then," she said impishly, standing from her dressing table and turning towards him, "but I am reasonably sure, as is my maid, who should know, as her sisters all have children of their own."

Aegon leaped up from his desk, all but bounded across the room to his wife, and swept her up off her feet with a shout of exultant laughter. _Oh gods, thank you for this,_ he thought as he set Margaery back on the floor and kissed her deeply, _of all the blessings you have given me, this is the greatest._

 **King's Landing, the Red Keep**

Jon Baratheon sighed deeply and regarded the woman who shared his bed. "Gods, but I wish I could marry you," he said ruefully. "You're the one woman I've met that can keep up with me."

"What do you mean _wish_?" Ygritte asked sharply, shooting him a pointed glance from the corner of her eye. "You're a lord, ain't you, can't you choose who you want?"

"In point of fact, I'm not and I can't," Jon said. "My father's the lord, I'm just his heir. And he'll choose who I wed, though Mother will have a hand in it like as not." He laughed shortly. "You should meet my mother sometime; I think you'd like each other _yipe!_ "

Ygritte cocked an eyebrow at him. "Never mind your mother," she said, loosening her grip on Jon's chest hairs. "Why can't you marry who you like?"

"Because that's the way of it, for nobles," Jon said shrugging carefully; Ygritte had only loosened her grip, not released it entirely. "When we marry, we marry for advantage. Wealth, lands, men-at-arms; these things count for a lot more than love when nobles wed."

Ygritte shook her head. "Then you and yours know nothing, Jon Baratheon," she said flatly. "Sooner or later, there will be trouble in any marriage. How can those troubles be overcome without love?"

"Duty, supposedly," Jon replied, "although self-preservation is more likely to be the actual motivator." He looked at his lover with a depth of fondness that was unusual for him; his previous affairs had all been entirely physical matters, not like this flame-haired virago who challenged his mind as much as his body. "I can't promise anything," he said softly, "but I'll tell my father that I prefer you above any of the flowers he and Mother have tried throwing at me. He'll probably refuse, but in that case," he shrugged, "Steffon always liked the idea of being Lord of Storm's End better than me, and it's not like I'm entirely dependent on my father's purse. Ser Eddard can find me a commission if I ask him politely, and from there, much else can be made possible."

Ygritte smiled, her irregular face the most beautiful Jon had ever seen. "You know nothing, Jon Baratheon," she said teasingly. "So long as we have breath and strength, all things are possible."

 **King's Landing, Flea Bottom**

The tall man lifted his tankard, glowered down at its contents, and set it down again. He was not usually fastidious, but the beer that this hole served was more likely to digest him than the other way around. Food safety, in this part of King's Landing, was more a matter of superstition and folklore than science. "I assume this is a business matter rather than a personal chat," he said to the roughly-dressed and foul-smelling man across from him. "If it was personal, we would be up in Maegor's instead of this dive."

The gap-toothed, villainous-looking fellow across from him cackled. "Well perceived, Ser," he said, in a voice that was the purest quill of Flea Bottom. "What gave it away if I may ask?"

"Only a spy would set up a meeting in a dump like this," the tall man said. "Only one of the King's spies would be brazen enough to set up a meeting with me. And only you would have the authority and the balls to do so. My lord Varys."

"Most excellent and really quite flattering, although that last was necessarily inaccurate," said the Master of Whispers, his unpatched eye twinkling. "Would you care to guess what sort of business I would request a meeting with you for?"

"I can only assume that you want to offer me a position in your apparatus," the tall man said. "Given my training and my abilities, I would be a valuable asset."

"Close, but not quite," said Varys, "I want to train you as my successor."

The tall man froze for a moment. "I am flattered," he said finally, a trace of an odd accent not native to Westerosi shores creeping into his voice, "but I must refuse."

Varys cocked an eyebrow. "Why so?"

"Three reasons," the tall man said, extending his right index finger. "Firstly, my loyalty is to House Stark before the Crown; my loyalty to the Crown is contingent on the standing of House Stark with the Crown. Secondly, I plan to go back North after the peace treaty is signed and not leave unless at direst need; I think that I have earned a vacation. Third and lastly," his voice hardened, "I am a soldier, not a spy. I can play the spy if I must, but I have no appetite for it. There is no honor in spy's work."

" _Honor_ ," the Spider said, his voice laced with contempt. "You think the Realm is kept safe by _honor_? The Realm is kept safe and at peace because my little birds sing me songs and I act upon them as I must. If you knew the half of the perils I have saved the Realm from, _Ser_ , you would think me as great a hero as any of your iron-headed thugs. But I do my work with poison and dagger and a minimum of fuss instead of with fire and sword and destruction, so I am condemned as a sneaking spider with no _honor_. Much use your _honor_ is, Ser Barnes, when the cold wind blows and the ravens gather overhead."

The Winter Soldier leaned forward, his eyes hard. "And if you knew the half of what _I_ have done, eunuch, you would know why I value honor so," he snarled wolfishly. "I was the tool of men like you, in the world I came from; a mindless beast kept in a cage except for when I was loosed to bring death and terror. I spent decades in the shadows, a skulking demon leashed by my own mind, as much a prisoner as any dungeon's inmate and more so for being trapped in my own head. Be that as it may; I am no longer a beast but a man, unchained and free to walk in the sunlight as I please. I will go back to the shadows as I must, to protect the people I care about, but I will not return to what I was for your sake. Seek another villain to take up your mantle, Varys, for I will not be one again." He stood, looming in the half-light of the fetid tavern. "In what time I have left to me in this life, I will be a hero."

Varys watched James Buchanan Barnes (such an _odd_ name, _Buchanan_ , he mused) stride out of the tavern and cursed silently to himself. Fortunately, Barnes had only been his first choice for a successor. Perhaps the sailor would be more amenable . . .

XXX

The Peace of King's Landing, signed in 310 AC, set the stage of diplomacy and politics in the Narrow Sea for the next hundred years. Under the terms of the Peace, Volantis paid an indemnity of five hundred thousand gold dragons, undertook a yearly tribute of fifty thousand gold dragons to be split evenly between Westeros and Braavos, abjured the slave trade, decommissioned all but ten of its warships, and foreswore all contact with the cities of Slaver's Bay. Lys was reduced to a Westerosi satellite, being forced to accept a Westerosi garrison and naval squadron, relinquish control of its foreign affairs, and charge Westerosi and Braavosi merchantmen a fraction of the regular market price for supplies. Westeros and Braavos affirmed their alliance, which culminated in 336 AC when King Aegon VI's younger son, Valarr, married the daughter of the Sealord.

Recent scholarship has accused the Peace of King's Landing of being an example of 'victor's justice", but regardless of its merits, it secured a lasting peace in the Narrow Sea for the rest of the century. With Volantis so thoroughly weakened, there was no other state in western Essos of sufficient power to challenge the Westerosi-Braavosi axis. The cities of Slaver's Bay would be as uniformly hostile to Westeros as they were to Braavos, but the twin difficulties of distance and logistics precluded the use of any military means but privateering and the subornation of various Dothraki hordes to attack the Westerosi colonies in the Disputed Lands. Although these avenues would result in several small-scale conflicts throughout King Aegon VI's reign, Westeros did not send another major army across the Narrow Sea until the First Great War of 400 AC.

By this time, the major players of Aegon VI's reign were almost all dead. The "Imperial Generation", as later demographers would call them, had witnessed and taken part in the most dramatic expansion of Westerosi power in history, equaled only by the rise of Qohor in the 380s. Their paths in the years after the Second War of the Three Daughters proved to be as diverse as they themselves were.

Joffrey Lannister did not have an easy succession; both his mother Cersei and his uncle Tyrion petitioned the Royal Circuit Court of the Westerlands to have their claims recognized. Cersei's petition was dropped after a closed-doors meeting with Tywin, but Tyrion's petition dragged on until he was bought off with a pension and a sinecure in the Department of Works. These early difficulties notwithstanding, Joffrey's reign as Lord of Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands continued the tradition of success begun by his grandfather. Joffrey the Golden died in 358 AC from injuries sustained in a riding accident and is buried in the Hall of Heroes in Casterly Rock.

With Ser Barristan Selmy's death from wounds sustained at Swinford, Ser Jaime Lannister became Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. In addition to his regular duties, he continued to be King Aegon's closest confidante, with Aegon describing him as a surrogate uncle; when Aegon's eldest son Jaehaerys was born, Aegon named Ser Jaime as his godsfather. Ser Jaime Lannister, the White Lion, died of influenza in 327 AC and is buried in Blackstone Military Cemetery outside King's Landing.

Artos Stark married Daenerys Targaryen in 311 AC, a year before taking over his father's position as Lord Marshal; Ser Eddard had decided that two major wars, an attempted coup, and ten years of an ongoing insurgency were quite enough turbulence for one lifetime and had decided to retire to the North. The lack of a major war during Artos' tenure meant that his own generalship can never be accurately measured against his famous father, but he was nonetheless a skillful military technician and administrator. After royal forces under his strategic direction crushed the Great Rising of the Blackwater in 314 AC, the sparrows were unable to attempt another general uprising until 402 AC, when the Royal Army's resources were stretched thin by the First Great War. Artos Stark continued as Lord Marshal until his death in 341 AC from dysentery contracted while on a field exercise, being survived by his wife, his two sons, and his daughter.

Robb Stark also continued in the Royal Army after the Second War of the Three Daughters. Promoted to Colonel of the Guides in 312 AC, he saw much service as King Aegon's fireman-in-chief, running down sparrow troops and outlaw bands. Devoted to his duty and something of a workaholic, he only married after age and wounds had forced him to retire from active service, and he died without issue in 343 AC. His main legacy was the Cavalry Branch of the Royal Army of Westeros, which today encompasses both heavy line-of-battle units and the Army's reconnaissance forces and considers him a founding father. His grave on the grounds of Redgrass Barracks is considered sacred ground by the Cavalry and especially the Guides. The sword Frost was passed to his successor as Colonel of the Guides on the day he retired, and is today one of the regiment's most treasured relics; although it has not been used in battle in some centuries, it remains as sharp and as battle-ready as ever.

Jon Baratheon proved to be another stalwart of the Royal Army. After his father gave him a choice between inheriting Storm's End or marrying his paramour, Sergeant Ygritte Flamehair of the Special Service Regiment, Jon announced his choice by taking an officer's commission in the Guards and arranging for Ygritte to receive one as well. Throwing himself into his new life as a professional soldier with his characteristic headlong vigor, he made a point of volunteering his troop for field service as often as he could get away with, claiming that soldiers, like swords, rusted if left to their own devices. Along the way he found time to raise two sons and two daughters with his wife; all four of them would follow their parents into the Royal Army. Jon and Ygritte would die within eleven days of each other in 349 AC and are buried next to each other in Blackstone Military Cemetery.

Even in an age that seemed to deliberately spawn great love stories that of Edmure Tully and Rhaenys Targaryen stood out. The two had an eventual total of eight children, six of which lived to adulthood. Edmure was often away from Riverrun, either putting down sparrow insurrections or tightening the bonds that welded the Riverlands into a cohesive entity, and so the correspondence between him and Rhaenys, much of which survived, is among the most extensive bodies of writing from the period. It is also among the most beautiful; Rhaenys was a poet of some note, and what little Edmure lacked in eloquence his writing makes up for in fervor. When Edmure died of heart failure in 335, Rhaenys followed him only seven days later; her death was widely attributed to grief. They are buried at Riverrun. The number of sub-par romance novels whose main characters claim to be inspired by their example defies both logic and good taste.

Harrold Arryn survived the wounds he sustained at Swinford, but his reputation and his soul never recovered from the disaster of the Pear Orchard and the subsequent investigation by the Department of War which, although it remains a model of impartiality, was nonetheless politically motivated; the original petitioner for an investigation into the battle's conduct was Lysa Tully. A virtual outcast from political life in the Vale, Harrold entered the service of his cousin Robert, and spent his off-duty days organizing charitable efforts for the families of the men who died under his command, to which he devoted almost all of his own resources. Guilt-racked, all but friendless, and so impoverished that he owned nothing but his sword and his armor, Harrold Arryn threw himself out the Moon Door in 319 AC.

Belicho Maegyr never stood trial for the Sack of Myr. In the aftermath of the Second War of the Three Daughters, it was decided that a son of the influential Maegyr clan was more valuable alive and in Westerosi custody, where he could serve as a hostage, than dead, where he would be a martyr. Belicho was transferred from the Bleeding Tower to the Red Keep in 313 AC and never again set foot outside its walls. He held out for ten years, largely by writing nationalist poetry that ranged the gamut from execrable to passable, before finally giving up and committing suicide in 323 AC. A statue of him was erected in Old Volantis the next year; it was eventually removed in 574 AC, after lengthy and acrimonious debates that degenerated into open riots on at least three occasions.

Of all of Aegon VI's many accomplishments, one of the more impressive is the lease on life he gave the Targaryen dynasty. From the nadir of the Rebellion of the Lords Declarant, his reign catapulted House Targaryen to heights of power previously undreamed of. However, his success was the dynasty's ultimate undoing. Aegon is considered Aegon the Great by all authorities save Faith of the Seven extremists, to whom he is Aegon the Bloody, and hardline Volantene nationalists, to whom he is simply "the Dragon". In gaining his epithets, however, Aegon had fostered a system of government that required a chief executive of uncommon ability, diligence, and statesmanship. His successors, in contrast to himself, were competent, average, and, finally, weak. Arguably, the weakness of Aegon's great-grandson Gaemon may have been exaggerated by the circumstances he found himself in, having taken the throne in the middle of a flare-up of sparrow-dominated domestic unrest, a financial crisis caused by the overstretching of the Treasury to pay for the First Great War, a storm of activism from Westerosi colonists in Essos demanding political concessions, and a failure of the wheat crop in the Upper Mander region; faced with such pressure, it is not surprising that he cracked. Gaemon's abdication, with no other Targaryen male heir than his notoriously unstable second cousin Aemond, sparked the Revolution and led to the establishment of the United Kingdoms of Westeros. Entropy notwithstanding, the fact that the Targaryen dynasty not only survived Aegon's reign but continued in power for another three generations is arguably the greatest testament to Aegon's ability as a ruler. His Grace, Aegon, the Sixth of His Name of House Targaryen, In the Sight of the Old Gods and the Light of the Seven, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, the First Men, and His Territories Beyond the Sea, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Defender of the Faiths, Shield of the Narrow Sea, and Hammer of the East, called the Great, died in 344 AC of a heart attack and is buried in King's Landing.

James Buchanan Barnes remains one of the greatest mystery men in recorded history. He never openly discussed his origins, the mechanism by which he sustained his prolonged youth remains an enigma, and his personal life is almost entirely opaque. This is largely accounted for by the fact that none of his personal papers seem to have survived; our primary sources about his life are limited to those records of him that are available in the Royal Archives, his (heavily-redacted and tantalizingly vague) personnel file in the Records of the Army of the North, and the accounts of people who knew him. Nothing about him, however, is quite as mysterious as his disappearance. In 399 AC, he left Winterfell in a hurry, having given away or destroyed his personal effects, submitted his resignation from House Stark's service, and requested only three Valyrian steel daggers as a retirement bonus. He was last seen at Castle Black; when he was asked about his destination he said merely, "North," before riding through the gate and out of recorded history. Needless to say, the rumors that he had uncovered evidence of the existence of the Others and gone north to fight them began to circulate within the sennight. Given that to this day there has been no recorded sighting of an Other since the Long Night, this must remain a myth. The belief that Barnes left behind a son must also, sadly, remain a myth; it cannot be reasonably expected that any child of such a notorious father would escape notice or discovery. The most persistent myth, however, and one this author is half-inclined to believe, is that the Winter Soldier lies somewhere beyond the Wall, ready to return when the North needs him most. It can be argued that this particular myth has no more substance to it than any other example of the "sleeping hero" motif, but such legends endure for a reason; the world is a confusing and terrifying place and the notion that one of history's greatest heroes is not, in fact, dead but merely awaiting the summons to return to duty, is uniquely comforting. . .

\- _Hell at Swinford_ by Beron Stark, published 1675 AC

 **Author's Note: Aaannd, cut! And that, people is a wrap for this story. It's been one hell of a ride from the Rebellion of the Lords Declarant to the Second War of the Three Daughters, and I cannot thank you enough, my faithful readers and reviewers, for sticking with this story and providing feedback.**

 **I do not currently have any plans for a new story, so please, don't badger me for one. To quote Miracle Max, "Rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles." I have too much respect for writing as a craft to offer anything but a good product. Besides which, my mom is a published author; if she found out I was flooding the fanfiction market with low-quality work, I would never hear the end of it.**

 **Now for the last fielding of reviews!**

 **The armed forces: Thanks, mate!**

 **lagoon childe: I'm afraid it isn't. However, there's nothing to stop you from writing it yourself!**

 **Charles Ceasar: Thanks, mate!**

 **Guest: Thanks, mate!**

 **Guest: The mercenaries weren't hired by any of the Free Cities, they were hired by Viserys on the strength of promises of titles, land, and the plunder of a continent. None of the Free Cities would have been able to sustain such an army without beggaring themselves.**

 **Guest: Yes, but the suppression of the sparrows was a political situation as much as it was a military one. And you might note that Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon were not in the expedition.**

 **Guest: Thanks, mate!**

 **Deification? Even worse!**

 **Here you go, hope you enjoy!**

 **HighValour: Thanks, mate!**

 **Don't bring up Ramsay Snow; that mad dog deserves nothing but a painful death, a lonely grave, and disappearance into obscurity. Sorry if that seems a bit harsh, but I have a problem with characters whose only feature is their psychosis.**

 **(In Dwayne Johnson as Maui voice) You're Welcome! (Back to regular voice) Something to that idea. Feel free to run with it.**

 **Thank you all again for reading and reviewing, and I will see you all again when the next story idea takes my brain hostage. Until then, this is MarshalofMontival, signing off.**

 **Cheers, all!**


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